


Desert Bluffs Blues

by MadameReveuse



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Character Study, Family, Gentle Sex, Introspection, Kevin has scars, Kevin is probably human, Light Angst, M/M, More characters to be added, Religious Themes, everyone just smiles So Much, let Kevin say fuck, smiling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2020-02-28 19:01:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 67,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18762502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameReveuse/pseuds/MadameReveuse
Summary: Charles moved to Desert Bluffs for a community that values positivity and joy. The longer he stays there, however, the more he discovers what lies beneath the surface, and maybe it's more than he signed up for handling. Meanwhile, Kevin is still coming to terms with his place in a post-Strex world - not to even mention the whole stepparent thing.





	1. Ever Just the Same (Ever a Surprise)

**Author's Note:**

> Hell yeah, these chapters are gonna have fancy titles
> 
> What you're going to be getting here is basically a series of moments from the lives and times of Charles and Kevin, from both their POVs, loosely connected by an overarching plot as these two dorks get to really know each other, certain people's murderous corporate slave pasts included. If anything pops up that might potentially be triggering, I'll post a warning.
> 
> I'm writing this for my personal enjoyment but if YOU end up enjoying it, kudos or comments would be highly welcome. Or come talk to me on tumblr (@weepylucifer)!
> 
> The prayer is taken from It Devours, as you may notice.

There it is, Charles thinks to himself. Finally. Desert Bluffs.

His memory of crossing the transdimensional border is hazy at best, but he does recall that it took some _advanced_ incantations to cross over at all, especially with his son, his car and all their belongings in tow. From there on out, he’s been driving on this seemingly endless road, he doesn’t know for how long. The road is cracked, the paint faded. It seems to lead nowhere, until it leads somewhere.

Now finally, his new home is coming into view. Desert Bluffs or, strictly speaking, Desert Bluffs Too. A community which, as he has been told, values joy, positivity and a rich spiritual life. Fascinating religious practices, too, perfectly suitable for study and research. He will write _such_ papers here. And Donovan will get to grow up in a stable, happy place. Charles liked working in Pine Cliff, but a town entirely populated by ethereal, unchanging ghosts is no suitable environment for a healthy, growing, live boy like Donovan. Already, Charles fears, growing up around ghosts might have turned his son a little too severe and reclusive for his age. He needs to be surrounded by kids his age, and, above all, vibrant, living people. Charles doesn’t want him to grow socially stunted.

He is now in view of the city sign. “Desert Bluffs – Population: All Smiles.”

A figure is standing below the sign, hazy at this distance. When Charles spots them, the figure waves.

Huh. Looks like they’re getting a welcome committee. Charles is pleasantly surprised by this, especially since he didn’t tell anyone he would be moving here.

Donovan is asleep in the backseat. Charles leaves him to his nap, drives up to the sign and figure and gets out of the car.

He is approached immediately by a man. (A man…? Yeah, that’s a man.) The man is wearing boots, dark pants and a tie-dye t-shirt that says “I am GAY and AVAILABLE if anyone is at all WONDERING” across the chest. He has a… remarkable smile. He has… no eyes at all.

Well, that is perhaps a simplification, Charles thinks. The man has two obsidian voids where eyes would be expected to be. It doesn’t look like someone removed the eyes and left nothing behind. There’s clearly something there instead of eyes. It’s sort of a fascinating look. The man carries it confidently.

“Hi there,” says the man, “I’m Kevin. Welcome to Desert Bluffs.”

Charles smiles. What a friendly and genuine welcome. It’s quite charming.

He introduces himself. They shake hands. Kevin has very soft hands.

Charles can’t help but linger a bit, looking deeply into those black sockets. What he sees there is… a person, looking back at him.

“I don’t mean to be insensitive by asking,” Charles says. “But, are you…?”

“No,” Kevin interrupts him softly. “I can see you just fine. But thank you.”

Charles isn’t sure if anything he said warrants a thank you here. “For what?”

“For asking me like a person. Usually, people just… scream. ‘What is this creature, where are its eyes’… and so on.”

Charles frowns in sympathy. “Yikes.”

“Oh, I don’t let it get me down.”

“So,” Charles says, wanting to steer them back to a more comfortable topic. “Are you, um… in charge around here? Only because… you came out here to greet me.”

“Who, me?” Kevin puts a hand on his chest. “You probably want our mayor, my very good friend Lauren. Me, I’m just a nosy journalist looking to break a story on the mysterious newcomer. I’m in radio,” he explains when Charles asks. “I do this afternoon show around about… oh.” He checks his watch and chuckles. “Whoops. I’m actually on in about an hour.”

Knowing this, Charles really appreciates that Kevin came all the way out here to say hi, to make sure he’d see a friendly face immediately upon arriving. What a hospitable town this must be.

“I’m a theologist,” he says.

If Kevin wasn’t hanging on his lips before, he certainly is now. He emits a little gasp. “How _interesting_. A theologist, here?”

“Well,” Charles says with a self-conscious little laugh, “I plan to actually work as a teacher, but… this place is home to such unique religious practices. I can’t wait to study them. Do you happen to… do you know anything about the church here?”

“Do I ever,” Kevin says wryly.

 

* * *

 

Charles comes away from the conversation with the phone number of a real-life founding prophet of a religion scrawled onto his arm in sharpie, the offer of a guided tour of the town and a significant wink thrown his way. Needless to say, he’s smitten. And then he tunes into Kevin’s radio show as he drives out of curiosity and then he hears Kevin speak in the town square, and he decides they must do dinner.

He simply has to see more of Kevin. He'll worry about the consequences later.

* * *

 

Dinner concluded, Charles drives Kevin to his place. All the excellent conversation over dinner notwithstanding, they still barely know each other, and it’s been a long time since Kevin did anything like this. Maybe it’s unwise to jump into it. Kevin is aware of this, but somehow as Charles’s car comes to a halt in front of his house, “well, that’s me” turns into “Would you like to come up?”

Charles would like to.

They’re making out like teenagers by the time they get past the front door. Kevin detaches himself from Charles’s lips only long enough to throw out the obligatory “Sorry for the mess.”

“I really didn’t plan for this to happen,” he says with a laugh, “otherwise I would’ve cleaned up.” He _has_ cleaned up – normally his home is in a far more dismal state – on the off-chance that this would indeed happen, but not so much that the place _looks_ it.

“I don’t mind,” Charles murmurs against Kevin’s mouth. “As long as the bedroom’s usable?”

It is.

“It’s been a while,” Kevin says. It comes out breathier than intended, what with Charles’s gorgeous arms wrapped around his waist like that.

“Has it?” Charles blinks in something like surprise. “I mean, same here, obviously, but…”

Obviously? Nothing’s obvious to Kevin, but before he can remark on that, Charles continues, “But you’re so bold, Kevin. The way you were flirting, on the radio and when we met… would’ve thought you do this every day. That you’ve got the guys lining up.”

“Oh, _no_.” Kevin dismisses this with a gesture. “In this place? It’s a small town, everyone knows everyone else. It would be… weird.”

“Because of the gossip?” Charles asks. “Since you’re sort of a community leader…”

A community leader! What a charming thing to say about him. Kevin beams. However, he must correct Charles’s misapprehension here. “I don’t mind gossip,” he explains. “And it’s not like anyone would ever go out of their way to say something malicious about me!” He laughs brightly at the very notion. “Or about anyone else, really. It is such a positive community. We all just love each other a lot in that way.”

Charles smiles and nods. He seems to like that. He really has such a beautiful smile.

“But I’ve been with the people here a _long_ time,” Kevin finishes his explanation. How long precisely that has been, his time as the Voice of Desert Bluffs, well, that’s just one of these things his silly brain won’t quite let him remember. Maybe someday. “I wouldn’t want to _date_ one of them. No, all I can hope for is some handsome stranger coming in and sweeping me off my feet.”

Charles’s smile widens into a grin; it looks impossibly alluring. “And is this all you were hoping for?”

Kevin full-body shudders. _Those teeth…_

“Everything and more.” It’s half a gasp.

“Let’s do this then,” Charles says and tugs Kevin into a kiss.

It’s _so nice._

Soon it grows fervent, hands all over each other, unbuttoning and unzipping things. Kevin shimmies out of his own outfit as more of a side note to getting Charles out of his pants and shirt and wow, his chest is… it is _sculpted_. Kevin rakes his nails through the soft little hairs growing there, prompting a little moan from Charles that has him feeling all sorts of ways. His hand wanders lower, palming Charles through his boxer briefs, feeling him already gratifyingly hard there. Charles cuts this short by tugging Kevin down onto the bed, climbing up on top of him. There is a breathless little moment in which Charles just stares.

“Holy shit.”

Kevin smiles up at him, relishing the look of Charles’s hair slightly mussed, his mouth open in a gentle gasp, exposing just a hint of those glorious teeth.

“What happened?” Charles asks.

Kevin’s smile drops totally. This is not something that happens often, but it sure does now as Charles’s eyes fill with something compassionate and utterly, utterly horrible. Kevin doesn’t welcome pity in any (especially this!) context.

Of course. In the first flush of excitement and attraction he has let himself forget the state of things. The scars all over his body from the Strex takeover, when they had to break him in so many places just to pry him from that doorway. (Boy, was he passionate about something or other there once.) They repaired everything later, naturally, but nobody bothered with cosmetics. Inessential to productivity, and all that. They needed him for his voice, not for his looks.

“I don’t like talking about it,” Kevin dodges, resisting the impulse to cover himself. “Hey, just turn the light off. Pull down the blinds, fuck me, then leave. Or just leave, whichever suits you.”

Maybe he’ll be one of those ascetic prophets. Remain unfucked forever. Evidently, it doesn’t work with strangers either. They ask questions.

Charles shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair. “No, I… this doesn’t change anything. I just… sorry. I’m being a jerk.”

“This isn’t a deal breaker?”

“It really isn’t. And, look, if you don’t want to tell me, I won’t ask again. I don’t mind… all this, or your face, I still… really, really want to do this. But it… shit, it must’ve hurt.”

Kevin shrugs and reflects that once, there was a time when he would have told the whole story right there. And he would have enjoyed it. He would have thrown phrases like “deliriously happy” and “so much better for it” around. Something must have changed since then, because what he ends up saying is, “Pain is just a thing. So, you still really want to do this?”

Charles nods. “Very much.”

Kevin grins and kisses him.

Soon, Charles lets his mouth wander lower, sucking hickeys into Kevin’s neck, purplish spots to join the permanent reddish welt from the obedience collar, long since removed and flung into the desert. His arms are next, where they beat him with their batons until bone splintered. His legs received the same treatment, but Kevin forgets this as Charles is kissing up his thigh. He lifts his hips in invitation, in anticipation of what is to come. Hopefully soon – he’s so hard. He arches his back and whines a little, to show Charles how badly he needs it.

“Flip over,” Charles says, his voice rough around the edges in a way that Kevin loves. He turns onto his stomach and shifts into position as Charles grabs a pillow and stuffs it under him to elevate his hips.

“Can I…?” Charles asks.

“Oh, sure, I douched.”

Kevin strains to look over his shoulder when Charles chuckles, wanting to catch another glimpse of that beautiful smile. “ _No_ idea this would happen, huh?” Charles teases.

“Well, I mean…” The sentence trails off into a surprised half-squeak that Kevin’s not proud of as he feels Charles’s lips at his entrance. Charles licks him open, flicks his tongue inside, and by now Kevin is reciting the evening prayer to the Smiling God in his mind in order to maintain his composure. It takes a lot out of him to just keep still and not rut into the sheets. It’s been so long. There’s no way he’s going to last.

Charles withdraws his mouth and Kevin groans at the loss.

“You okay?” Charles asks.

“ _Fuck_ me.”

“Lube?”

Kevin clicks his tongue. Really? Now? “Just put it _in_.” The pain will be nothing noteworthy. And frankly, is it even good if it doesn’t hurt?

“Nope,” Charles says. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I’m used to things hurting.” Has Charles not just seen it? His body, a scar palette.

“Yeah, obviously.” Charles forcibly exhales through his nose. “Look, I don’t know who those people were that did all that to you, but I’m not going to be them. That’s… just not the way I play.”

Kevin fishes the lube from the nightstand, hands trembling a little.

He tosses the small bottle vaguely in the direction of Charles, who slicks up his fingers and pushes one – _one_ – in. Kevin squirms a little, impatient for more.

“Another,” he demands. Charles strokes his flank with the free hand, as if having to calm an animal.

“Be patient,” he admonishes, but he says it so softly that Kevin can’t possibly be mad. Soon enough, Charles does add a second finger, scissoring them, but gently so. He’s added more lube, so their slide inside is easy. Kevin mewls as he is stretched open, hands fisting into the sheets. It burns, but just a little, just enough to feel delicious. He pushes back onto Charles’s fingers, wanting more, wanting them in deeper. He hears Charles’s breaths come fast and hard, the hand on his hip gripping with more urgency. That’s going to bruise, or so Kevin hopes. His cock twitches and he moans at the thought.

“Shit, you’re gorgeous,” Charles breathes. “Your voice… fuck.”

Kevin gives him an extra-pretty moan for that. “One more. Please.”

Charles slides a third finger into him, curling all three a bit. They brush up against Kevin’s prostate, just a hint of a touch, and his vision whites out for a moment as he bucks desperately up into it.

“Oh… Charles…” He doesn’t usually beg. Who cares? He needs to speed things up. “Fuck me, I need… _need_ you to fuck me.”

“Okay. Okay, baby, okay.” Charles withdraws his fingers, making Kevin whimper momentarily, but he quietens and strains his ears for the noises behind him.

“What is _taking_ so long?”

“Condom,” Charles says curtly.

“Unnghhh.” Kevin buries his head into the bedsheet. “This is taking an _eternity_.”

“One of these bratty bottoms, are you?” Charles says with an airy chuckle. Kevin won’t confirm or deny it.

“Ready?” Charles asks, and Kevin can feel the tip of his cock lined up with the rim of his hole, blunt and thick.

_“Yes.”_ He’s so strung out from all this waiting. _I’m going to be_ wrecked _by the end of this._

Charles pushes himself in, and for a moment, Kevin stills, eyes squeezed shut, hands clawed into the sheets, adjusting to the sudden fullness. It’s so much after such a long draught, he almost comes untouched. A desperate little noise escapes him as he bites his lips, drags himself back from the edge by sheer willpower and just breathes.

“Is this okay?” Charles asks.

Is this _okay?_ Kevin wants to echo. He doesn’t know what this is. Nothing hurts. There is no blood. He can’t process all this _softness_. Is it good if it doesn’t even hurt?

But this is not what he ends up saying. Because, his body realizes, this _is_ okay. More than okay, actually. This absence of violence, this nothing-but-warmth, he could get used to this. In his enthusiasm, Charles has used a bit too much lube, and Kevin feels it warmed and slippery down the backs of his thighs. It’s an amazing feeling. He hasn’t had someone be so overly careful in their treatment of him in… huh, maybe ever. He ends up nodding furiously, too taken by all this to verbally respond.

Charles starts moving then, nice, deep thrusts. He grips Kevin’s hips to steady himself and Kevin doesn’t feel manhandled, merely… held. The first few are erratic, Charles finding his footing, until one hits home. Kevin arches and makes a sound, quite involuntarily, and Charles angles himself there over and over and over, until Kevin is seeing and thinking and feeling nothing but this, this sensation wholly.

“You’re so beautiful,” Charles groans behind him. “I’m not gonna last.”

“Me either.” Kevin laughs. Soon they’re both laughing. They don’t even know what about. But it’s good, to share this, vulnerability somehow breeding joy. Kevin has a disjointed thought of something sacred, until Charles interrupts this by folding his body over and down to kiss his neck. He wraps a hand around Kevin’s cock, pumping it a few times as his own thrusts grow into desperate twitches, chasing Kevin to the finish line. Kevin comes first, hot streaks over Charles’s hand, with Charles following suit no five seconds later.

Kevin thinks he might have blacked out for a moment, because when he comes to, Charles has already pulled out and is removing the condom. He moves to get up from the bed, which is simply not a state of things that Kevin can tolerate.

He slides into his favorite spot, patting the bed beside him. “Stay the night.”

“I have to go home…” Charles mutters, but he sounds half asleep. A token resistance.

“No, stay with me,” Kevin insists.

Charles sighs, but cuddles up next to him as he does, spooning him close. He’s out like a light before Kevin can do more than give him a kiss goodnight.

Kevin blinks into the darkness of his bedroom and takes stock of the events. He’s not wrecked, but he’s _something_ , that much is certain. Whatever that was just now has left its mark on him, has him already yearning for more of the same. Well, they will do this again. Maybe even tomorrow already. Maybe every day from now on.

Kevin sneaks one last look at the sleeping face of Charles before he nestles into his side and closes his eyes. _Mine,_ he thinks proprietarily.

 

* * *

 

Not, it turns out less than a week later, completely his.

“I should tell you I have a son,” Charles says, “His name is Donovan and he’s five.”

That warm and glowing something that awoke in Kevin freezes solid.

A child, well. Such a young one, too. A child means commitment, a commitment Kevin hasn’t foreseen for himself in the near future, if at all. (He suspects that down below, deep within, there lies buried a part of him that once was another person, a person that was pried from a doorway and broken in so many places and replaced with, well, him. That person might have wanted children, in a tentative hypothetical future that never came to be. Does that say anything about what he, his present self, wants?)

“You would be great around Donovan,” Charles says, and Kevin blinks and wonders to himself if Charles recently hit his head somewhere. “I don’t want to bring dates home if they’re not going to stick around,” Charles says, and Kevin understands what he means. Not only is Charles expressing his hope for a serious, long-term relationship (and isn’t that thrilling!) he is, in the same breath, giving Kevin a chance to opt out. They’ve gone on one and a half dates total, it’s fine, Charles is essentially saying, if Kevin’s not on board with co-parenting a child.

This isn’t an issue Kevin can get rid of with a smile, or a few well-placed words, or a knife. Normally, since they rebuilt their town in this desert otherworld with him in charge, what Kevin wants, Kevin gets. After having little to no agency for so long, and after having only shortly regained it, Kevin is loath to part with the cozy security offered by total control. But here it is: he cannot have more of that warm, miraculous thing that happened between them, more of Charles, if he won’t indulge a kid.

Giving up on something he wants so badly and so urgently is simply not what Kevin does. Charles will be _his_. No five-year-old is going to stop _him_.

 

* * *

 

So now here he is, at Charles’s house, meeting his son. Record scratch, freeze frame, yup…

Donovan is… okay. If he were spoiled or annoying, Kevin would probably walk out of here. But he seems bright, friendly. A little shy, maybe. Endearing enough that Kevin can consider having him around, and a small part of him starts, for the first time in a long time, thinking of a possible future. He opts to ignore that part for now. Futures are fickle things, just as likely to evaporate or get ripped away by an evil corporation as anything. There is only now.

Now is the moment in which Kevin looks at Charles, half-listening to his plans and aspirations for a family. He’s glad for the state of his eyes that won’t betray that he’s just staring at the sliver of exposed skin above Charles’s collar while saying “yes” and “uh-huh” in the appropriate places. He wants to kiss and lick and suck on that little patch of skin. He wants to crawl into Charles’s lap and tear open that button-up he’s wearing and run his hands all over that beautiful chest. He then wants to slink to the floor between Charles’s legs, open up his zipper with his teeth, and then…

He wants to not be sitting here with a tepid soda and a five-year-old.

After a suitable amount of time has passed, Kevin excuses himself with some half-lie about some work he has to do at the radio station and heads there in an uncommonly low mood. How is he to deliver a suitably joyful broadcast to his community like this? He’s got to do it somehow. Can’t let everyone down. For a minute, he feels an itch for the uppers Strex had him on. He has a small stash hidden in his bedroom that he hasn’t touched in a while. Maybe…

Something in him rebels at the thought. His hands have clenched into fists at his sides without him noticing, the palms clammy. _Happiness naturally arrived at,_ he tells himself, _must be infinitely more valuable in the eyes of the Smiling God than… that._ The parable is somewhat lacking, seeing as the Smiling God, like Kevin, has no eyes, but perhaps with some deliberation, the concept could make a nice enough basis for a sermon. He makes a mental note to keep that in mind.

 

* * *

 

Thinking about Charles and Donovan at all fills Kevin with a sudden and tempestuous whirlwind of emotions that he didn’t even think he could feel anymore, so he shoves it all aside for the moment. There is so much work to be done on the Mudstone Abyss. Good work, hard work, productive work. It is a beautiful vision: all of Desert Bluffs coming together to collaborate on building a glorious monument to the Smiling God. If some people are dragging their feet in fulfilling that vision, for some incomprehensible reason, well, measures can be taken to correct that. What a wonderful event for the whole town. Kevin throws himself wholeheartedly into that, and turns his phone off when Charles tries to call him. He can’t let all these confusing feelings distract him at a time like this! He must deal with the Charles-and-Donovan-situation at some point and make sense of his feelings, but not yet. Not now. Not when he needs to be focusing on the Mudstone Abyss.

 

* * *

 

Charles is in a bit of a bind.

He has started making acquaintances in town already, but his outsidership has not quite worn off yet. He’s only been here for a few weeks after all, and most of his time has been spent ensuring that Donnie settles in alright. He’s already on quite friendly terms with Grandma Josephine and her demons (all named Erik), who have offered to babysit whenever he might need it. People in general have been very nice and welcoming towards him. Charles isn’t quite sure if that’s just that famed Desert Bluffs positivity that drove him to come here in the first place, or if it is because of Kevin.

He really misses Kevin.

They haven’t seen each other since their second date. It’s probably weird to miss him so much already. There isn’t even a legitimate reason to be pining, it’s a small town, he can always go find Kevin if he really wants to, hell, he’s got a house key for Kevin’s place. And yet…

He decided to go on ahead and introduce Kevin to Donovan, and since then there’s been radio silence. Well, not literal radio silence, Kevin’s still on the radio, he just hasn’t called Charles. Sometimes people just don’t call, and that’s okay. But…

Charles just wants to see Kevin, alright? To watch the way he moves so gracefully, to listen to him talk in that sweet, beautiful voice, not just on the radio but in person. He wants to see the expression on Kevin’s face as he talks, as he forms his thoughts and turns them into words. He wants to run his hands through Kevin’s hair, to kiss his cute, smiling mouth, to pull him close and inhale his scent. To go down on him, too, actually. But it seems like Kevin needs space, so Charles is giving him space.

Dating is complicated when you have a young child. It’s natural for Kevin to be shocked by the sudden confrontation with this. Maybe Kevin isn’t interested in that kind of relationship. Maybe he doesn’t like Donovan. Maybe it’s too much all at once. Maybe he needs time to come around. It’s just that Charles would have appreciated a heads-up regarding where Kevin is at. Even an outright rejection would at this point be more merciful than… nothing. Being left hanging like that keeps Charles up at night, and he can see he’s beginning to brood.

But above all, he just really. Misses. Kevin.

Well, there is one place in town where all and sundry can partake in the physical presence of Kevin, once a week, for free. If Charles wants to do a comprehensive study of the Joyous Congregation, he has to go to their church anyway.

The church is… certainly interesting. Almost everyone in town is there. Many are dressed in their Sunday best, some are wearing long, yellow robes, but many other people are just in their street clothes. Charles picks an inconspicuous place for himself to sit, not out front but not in the very back either, and casts a look around before the service begins, studying the pictures on the stained-glass windows. All around him, people are chatting with friends and family and leafing through hymn books. For a moment, Charles feels a bit alone, outsider that he still is. It seems that people aren’t sure of how to approach him yet, what to think of him yet. For a moment, he wishes he had brought Donovan. Usually, with the solid little warmth of Donnie by his side, Charles feels like he can do anything.

A hush falls over the crowd at the entrance of Kevin. He, too, is wearing a robe and a giant yellow hat. It should be a ridiculous look on an adult man. But here, against the backdrop of the stained-glass mural depicting the giant centipede that is his god, he looks radiant.

“Good morning, Desert Bluffs.” Kevin opens the sermon in much the same way he usually opens his radio show. His soft voice washes over the crowd and Charles feels his heart beating very fast and very hard. He’s not been listening to Kevin’s show lately, it’s made him pine even harder. He hasn’t heard Kevin’s voice in two weeks.

Will Kevin see him sitting here? Oh god. What if he does? Will he feel glad that Charles is here? Violated in his privacy? It’s a public church service, Charles tells himself, there’s no reason why he shouldn’t be here…

“How nice to see so many of you here,” Kevin is saying. Charles flinches, but when Kevin’s eyes (in a manner of speaking) sweep the crowd, they don’t catch on Charles. “What a great turnout. What a joyous occasion, to be so assembled. Here, together, sharing in our faith in a glorious Smiling God.” His voice dips into something less conversational, more reverent. “We will be the devoted, the devoured. Let’s pray.”

Kevin serenely leads the congregation in prayer, his hands folded, his eyes (well) downcast as he does. The smile on his face is real, it speaks of genuine fulfilment. To Charles, he is so beautiful.

“O Smiling God,” the prayer begins, and Charles listens.

“Who, more than you, hungers?

Who comes out of the sand, like you, and devours all It can see?

Who has larger teeth? Who has more teeth?

Who else is an enormous centipede?

No one. Only You, our gracious Smiling God.”

To Charles as a theologist, this is fascinating. But Charles as a person is too busy staring at the way the sun streaks in through the windows and illuminates Kevin up there on the pulpit. He is divine, the very picture of a prophet. Like a poster boy for worship.

“So you are marked, may you be eaten,

So you are devout, may you be devoured.

So you are together, may you be together within the stomach of our Smiling God,” Kevin concludes. “Amen. Joyfully, It Devours.”

“Joyfully, It Devours,” the congregation echoes.

“Now,” Kevin says, casually resting his elbows on the pulpit. “I want to preach to you today about our personal happiness, and how our striving for happiness intersects with our faith in the Smiling God. It recently occurred to me that happiness should be something we arrive at through a natural process, something we hold within ourselves, not something we can achieve artificially. We all know what _that_ was like!”

Charles doesn’t, in fact, know what Kevin is talking about here, but the congregation murmurs like they do. Kevin’s thoughts on happiness are no doubt probably highly interesting, but Charles can’t help but get lost in watching Kevin’s lips move without really taking in the words he’s saying, in observing his natural smile, the gestures of his hands. You can’t get that kind of visual on the radio. He’s adorable, up there. No, not adorable. Alluring.

Something about scenes like this, about watching a person really flourish within their faith, makes Charles feel very warm inside. More than just warm, in fact. If the homily goes on for a lot longer, he may have to discreetly cross his legs. Then, suddenly, Kevin’s fluent presentation falters.

Charles zones back in, only to see that Kevin is looking right at him. He is spotted.

“Um…” Kevin says.

There are some rustles in the crowd, people growing discomfited. It appears that dead air is not common with Kevin, on the radio or off. Charles gives Kevin a cramped smile and a little nod, unsure of what else to do.

It lasts for no more than a second. Then Kevin takes a deep breath and attempts to collect himself. “Right, so. As I was saying. Um. All rise for the hymn.”

Charles has listened to Kevin’s show enough to see that this is merely religious parlance for “let’s cut to the weather”. An assistant pastor, most likely some dude whose name begins with a K, starts up the organ. Opening their hymn books, the congregation rises.

Charles is not much of a singer, and he doesn’t know the hymns here, so he plans on sort of humming along. It all… goes away, though, when Kevin opens his mouth and Charles realizes with a hot-and-cold shock that he will hear _him_ sing.

The next thing he is consciously aware of doing is when he’s half-floating to the parking lot after the service. He gets into his Honda, remembering he’s going to have to pick up Donovan now. He hurriedly tries to think of the least sexual things he can imagine.

By the time he reaches Grandma Josephine’s, he’s got himself back under control. Donnie is in her living room accompanied by a couple of demons, all watching a Disney movie. It is legally mandated in Desert Bluffs to acknowledge demons, whatever that means, so Charles quickly says hi to Erik, Erik, Erik and Erik before sitting with Donovan.

“Like the movie, buddy?” he asks. Donnie smiles and nods.

“Sort of like your situation,” Josephine remarks with an old-lady-chortle, gesturing at the TV, upon which the characters have just reached the iconic dancing scene. _Both a little scared, neither one prepared, Beauty and…_

Charles smiles sheepishly, scratching his head. He doesn’t really get what Josephine might mean. Is he the Beast?

Josephine engages him in conversation for about fifteen minutes before he gets to take Donnie home. Charles expects it to be awkward, especially when she breaks out her photo albums in the manner of elderly ladies everywhere. Many of the pictures are of younger Desert Bluffs residents, among them even a teenaged Kevin, an almost comically moody-looking, gangly kid with…

“He has eyes in these,” Charles remarks.

“Of course he does,” says Grandma Josephine. She closes the book and hands it to a passing demon. “You two better hurry on home now…”

 

* * *

 

As a strange aphasia takes hold of Desert Bluffs, Kevin, for the first time in weeks, checks his voicemail. There is literally nothing else he can say to wrap up the broadcast. Unlike everyone else in town, he’s perfectly aware that he has started spouting word salad: maybe it’s the eons of experience as a radio professional. It’s heartwarming, somehow, that Charles is out there trying to fix the problem, and his voicemails contain pertinent information. If they also contain items of a more personal nature, well, so be it, Kevin’s airing all of it.

“I hope bringing Donnie around hasn’t scared you off,” Charles says. Kevin can barely keep himself from harrumphing on air. Him? Scared? Hah. The last time Kevin felt fear was the moment just before they took his eyes, and he hasn’t felt fear since. A five-year-old comes nowhere near that, and neither does the sudden daunting task that’s being asked of him to let a small, foreign, utterly fragile being into his life whom he doesn’t know or understand. _Him? Scared? Hah._

“I won’t be mad,” Charles is saying, “if you want to stop seeing me because I have a child. Well, I won’t be… as mad… if you tell me now.”

Charles elaborates upon the feelings he is going to have if Kevin keeps stalling, none of them good. Such negativity. Kevin shudders. Well, Charles is an outsider, so Kevin will graciously forgive him. It’s easy to forgive a man with _such_ a smile, and _such_ a chest, and _such_ a _gorgeous_ …

He’d been so gentle. So caring. He treated Kevin like a Fabergé egg, and Kevin wants that again. He doesn’t want to make Charles unhappy. He doesn’t want to stop seeing Charles. He doesn’t want to keep ignoring him, seeing as that has caused such doubts in Charles regarding his intentions. He wants, quite simply, to have Charles be his again.

For this he must first reach out to him. Kevin isn’t shy in any manner of ways, he would call Charles as soon as the show is over. But how will they talk with this curse hanging over the town, making it impossible for them to understand each other?

Kevin sighs, realizing what he must do. If Charles is right, and the Mudstone Abyss is causing this, construction will have to be halted. Temporarily, of course, only until a solution is found, and he will impress it upon Lauren that a solution must be found posthaste. He will not give up on his monument. He will not give up on his Charles. He will grasp everything tightly, and not let anything go again. What Kevin wants, Kevin gets.

 

* * *

 

Charles asks Kevin to tag along with him and Donovan to the amusement park. Kevin doesn’t expect an ideal date, seeing as it’s so decidedly on the platonic side and, again, the kid will be there. But Kevin has an impression to make here, so he rummages through his wardrobe for a statement outfit. He settles on a fluffy, soft pink sweater and an off-white skirt. The statement here being that he is a nice and ordinary person who as a matter of course is perfectly able to drag his mind out of the gutter for however long it takes to enjoy a family-friendly amusement park date. He uses up an unholy amount of makeup on the facial scars that form his permanent smile, and adds heart-shaped sunglasses as a cute little finishing touch. The sweater is an instant hit with Donovan, but Charles seems strangely subdued about Kevin’s presentation as a whole.

“You don’t need to cover up for me,” Charles says, and Kevin’s heart flutters. When Kevin directs a pointed side-glance at an oblivious Donovan, Charles adds, “And I’d like to think I’m raising my son better than to be put off by some scars.”

The three of them try out some rides, eat an inadvisable amount of fair food, and have their pictures taken at a photo booth. Charles pockets one, grabs the other before Kevin can, unearths a ballpoint pen from his pocket and scribbles something on it before handing it over. At the bottom of the faux-old-fashioned, glossy polaroid, it now says, next to a tiny heart and a smiley face, “Welcome to our family, Kevin!”

Kevin looks at this and feels like he’s internally unspooling. Something bursts open in his chest, spreading a warmth he’s never known outside of Strexcorp-manufactured artificial happiness, injected intravenously. It’s like a rubber bullet to the solar plexus, or like a giant flower bud he’s had no prior knowledge of has suddenly burst open in there and is now merrily laying destruction to his insides as it blooms and expands ever outward, splintering his ribs, crushing his lungs, and somehow he doesn’t want to stop suffocating. This feeling, though, is warring with a rush of complete, utter trepidation.

“Is it too much?” Charles asks. “I’m sorry if it’s too much. I just thought…”

“It’s fine.” Kevin hadn’t noticed how tightly he is clutching the photo until Charles extended a hand to take it back. He clutches it to his chest. “It’s perfect.”

Charles smiles at him. It’s a soft, understanding sort of smile. Kevin can’t bring himself to mind. “Let’s look at some more rides, yeah?”

Donnie nods enthusiastically at this. “Can we go on that one, dad?”

“Sure. Um… Kevin, why is it called the esophagus remover?”

Kevin shrugs. How’s he to know? He didn’t build the ride…

 

* * *

 

Eventually, they end up back at Charles’s house. Charles puts on a cartoon for Donovan to watch that ends up mostly being watched by Kevin and ultimately by no one, as Donnie is a lot more fascinated with his toy airplanes than the TV, and Kevin finds himself in turn fascinated by Donovan. There’s something hypnotic about the way the kid keeps zigging and zagging his little planes around with such focused intent. Kids, right?

He and Charles attempt some small talk about the movie and related issues. It turns out Charles’s favorite Disney villain is Frollo the priest from Hunchback, for some reason. (Kevin favors Scar.) But in the end they nestle close together on the couch and quit talking altogether, dozing off fairly simultaneously while still watching Donovan.

Kevin wakes up and it’s the middle of the night and Charles is snoring, his head resting on Kevin’s shoulder. Donovan is nowhere, and it occurs to Kevin to be slightly concerned. He gets up, careful not to disturb Charles, and meanders through the house to eventually find that Donovan has put himself to bed and is fast asleep. Kevin tucks him in properly, feeling like he, as an adult, has now contributed. He goes back to the living room and repeats the procedure with Charles.

Very well. He smiles. That’s the boys taken care of.

Wait, what is he thinking? ‘The boys’, really? _Get it together,_ Kevin tells himself, shaking his head.

Today was good. He was happy. It’s not been good in the ideal way. He’d wanted, in his heart of hearts, for him and Charles to spend time together, with the kid, at most, a sort of annoying side note. It has been a very Donnie-centric date. Maybe it will always be like that with Charles. The strangest thing is that Kevin didn’t… mind nearly as much as he thought he would. He had fun seeing Donnie laugh and smile on the rides, on the pictures they took. Something in his mind is shifting, slotting into place. Donovan is slotting into place. A part of Kevin is starting to accept that Donovan will be in his life now, that the future will have this kid in it.

The rest of his mind resists vehemently. He just got control over his life back. Control must be total. There must be no surprises. Not even happy ones. _Is this all you ever do, accept, settle, resign?_ that part of his mind hisses. _We do not settle. Ideal or nothing. What we want, we get. We must not compromise again, never again, never ever ever again. We failed once, gave up once. Never again. Never again._

_But isn’t this ideal?_ Kevin thinks. _I can’t have Charles without also having Donnie. And I’m starting to want Donnie._

_Soon they’ll be taking measurements for another collar…_

Kevin touches his neck. There is no collar. There has not been a collar there for months and months.

He slips, quietly, out of the house and drives home.

 

* * *

 

A little later, Kevin’s at the radio station, reading through the community calendar. The discovery that people are gearing up to burn him in effigy is… well.

As the people of Desert Bluffs drag Lauren from her podium, while Kevin watches, somewhere below, deep within, that other person he once used to be curls up in shame. _That was us out there once,_ the person seems to say. _There was a time when we would have been out there on the front lines organizing the marches and the sit-ins, railing against the oppressor._

Kevin knows that Lauren, these days, is not the oppressor. Lauren is just saying what she’s told to say.

But no. He can’t be having these thoughts. He’s in control now. He’s not compromising. He’s had a vision. The monument must be built, and he will not let his happiness be laid waste to by a bunch of naysayers who just can’t seem to see how his vision will make everyone happy, in time. The Smiling God is real, and It’s important, and It’s granted him a vision, and therefore…

Kevin’s phone vibrates. Charles. Thank goodness, something nice to focus on. Maybe he even found a babysitter, and they can go on a date on their own for once.

It turns out Charles is calling to ask if Kevin will be joining him in taking Donovan to the zoo. _Yeah, that sounds fucking riveting right now,_ leaps to Kevin’s tongue, and he can only barely swallow it back down. It’s not a very… joyous thing to say. It hasn’t been a very… joyous day so far.

Kevin cuts to the weather more or less to prove a point (it’s not the nicest weather ever, not really suited for such an outing as Charles is planning) and also so that they can discuss this without everyone listening in. It doesn’t go great. Charles is distracted; apparently Donovan is doing that thing with his toy planes again.

“Focus on us,” Kevin tells him, “Just forget what Donovan’s doing!”

Charles heaves a sigh at that. “Donovan _is_ us,” he snaps. “That’s the deal, okay?”

And well, he’s right. That has been the implication since their second date. And it’s not even so bad, Donnie’s a good kid, but… why can’t anything ever be exactly the way Kevin wants it to? Why is everything fraught with all these obstacles? Why can’t things ever turn out just as right as right can be?

Kevin rubs his temple with his free hand. Man, it’s coming from all sides today, isn’t it?

He’s surrounded.

_The arrogance of religion, government and media…_

_The Citizens for Free Will are holding a protest march…_

_If you want to stop seeing me because I have a child…_

_…a bloviating radio host who overreaches his position, enslaving an entire town to satisfy his hunger for religious power…_

_Donovan is us…_

_…the Pit of Ruin…_

_Have we become them? Have we? Have we? Are we like the people who took our eyes?_

_Shut up, **shut up** ,_ Kevin wants to snap at these thoughts in general and at the other person deep within him in particular. _What can you possibly have to say that is of value? You failure. You bloodless, spineless, pointless contrarian._

The other Kevin, half-remembered, from way off in the past seems to shrug. _It’s coming from all sides because we’re doing something wrong,_ he opines. _What kind of a community leader are we if we can’t make anyone in this community happy?_

And as for Charles… and Donovan…

Donovan with his planes. Cute kid, actually. Would it be so bad to make concessions just this once? Sure, taking Charles’s kid to the zoo is not the steamy love affair Kevin envisioned when he first laid eyes on Charles, but life just gets like that sometimes. Living is not an exact science. Who said that? Carlos?

Carlos, well. The one that got away. Is he going to drive Charles away in a similar manner? Would it _kill_ him to sit down and watch Donovan play with his toys? It’s even strangely mesmerizing, isn’t it, watching Donnie fly his planes about, in this recurring, looping pattern of… interlocking triangles…

Well, hold on.

“It’s the same pattern,” Kevin says aloud.

“What?” Charles says on the phone, having just been interrupted in… whatever he was saying.

He can’t be _completely_ sure. Kevin wishes he had the Book of Devouring here to cross-reference, but nobody thought to retrieve it from the old Desert Bluffs and it’s most likely lost forever. But he’s certain.

“Donnie’s planes,” Kevin tells Charles. He knows it must sound nonsensical out of context. “There’s no time to explain, we only have, like, two minutes of weather left. But you need to take Donnie to the Mudstone Abyss.”

Charles sighs once more. He sounds as unnerved as Kevin is feeling. “Kevin, I’m not having my son thrown into your pit.”

_“Huh?”_ Kevin has to set the phone down for a second. “Oh, well, if you think _that_ of me…”

Charles starts to splutter some apology, but there really is no time. “I have a feeling about Donnie and his planes. Remember that dream we talked about? The swooping birds? It’s the same pattern. I don’t know what it means, but… You guys really need to get to the Abyss, and bring Donnie’s planes.”

Charles is deeply confused, but he relents.

And then, a miracle happens.

 

* * *

 

Kevin watches, awestruck, as the shadowy spirits disappear, Donnie’s planes give form to sublime geometries in midair, and the people of Desert Bluffs return, out of their own volition, to the dig site. Charles calls him, dazed and elated and utterly adorable, rejoicing about how Kevin figured everything out, and Kevin tells him truthfully that he in fact did very little. Donovan was showing them all along, and Kevin, chosen prophet that he is, didn’t see a thing. Because he didn’t want to waste any consideration on Donovan. Because he didn’t want to think of Donovan as important, as somebody who mattered.

Kevin casts his sight out onto the town again and spots Charles, sitting on the edge of the Mudstone Abyss, dangling his legs and gazing down into it lost in thought. Donovan seems to have gotten bored of this and ran a little ways off, brandishing his toy planes and making what he probably thinks are plane noises with his mouth.

Kevin ends the broadcast, locks up the studio and ventures there.

It’s odd, walking out in the sunshine among the people he just viewed from his booth. People are still digging, some carving the patterns revealed to them by Donovan into the rock. Some are resting in the shade. Someone – Lawrence Levine, from the edge of town – has opened up a lemonade stand with free refreshments for the workers. The man flinches when he catches Kevin’s eye, trying to shrink into himself in some imagined shame. Kevin tries to muster what he hopes is a reassuring smile at him, but what might just be a terrifying grimace. There is a general upset wherever he approaches. People cringe, avoid his glance and hurriedly pick up their spades.

_They were our friends,_ whispers the other Kevin from below, deep within, horrified. _They were our friends before Strex came._

They’re afraid of him. His community is afraid of him.

How removed from them has he gotten to not notice this?

And yet, when he crossed the line, they gathered up the courage to protest, even after what happened last time. Brave, beautiful Desert Bluffs.

Kevin doesn’t have tears at his disposal anymore, not since Strex did Smiling-God-knows-what to his eyes, but there sure is a stinging sensation where his eyes used to be. He coughs dryly into his fist, the closest thing to a sob he can produce. Normally he considers this one of the more pleasant features of his Strex makeover. Who would ever want to weep? Right now, he’s beginning to think it sure would be nice to have the option.

People leave Charles alone, sitting and gazing. Kevin goes to him. The penny heels he unwisely decided to wear this morning come perilously close to slipping in the mud a few times.

Charles turns towards him, his whole face lighting up. “Kevin, this is incredible. Did we just witness a miracle? I think I…”

“I’m sorry,” Kevin interrupts him. He thought he wanted to make a child sacrifice of Donovan. “Will you be able to forgive me?”

Charles furrows his brows. “For what?”

Kevin gestures vaguely at himself in his entirety. “For being this. For being so ugly and so vicious.”

“Babe,” Charles says, “there’s nothing to forgive.”

A kind lie. Kevin knows what it is to be told a kind lie. Yet still he finds himself half-leaping into Charles’s open arms. Mindless of the onlookers, they kiss as if the world is ending.

Soon enough they are interrupted by a tug at the edge of the cape Kevin’s wearing. It’s Donovan, and they scoop him into a hug too, and Kevin feels nothing but contentment. That other him from way back when curls up inside and goes to sleep.

They sit on the edge of the Abyss together, linking hands, looking down at carvings of sublime geometries, with Donovan curled up in Charles’s lap. They sit like that for a while, not talking, until Donnie jumps up and runs off to find something more interesting to occupy his time. Kevin catches himself smiling fondly as he watches the boy’s back. Children, it seems, don’t care much for long, boring moments of adult introspection.

“Let’s get him and go home?” Charles suggests.

Kevin nods.

“And you don’t have to come with us to the zoo if that’s not… something you’d enjoy.”

Kevin finds he means it when he squeezes Charles’s hand and says, “I want to.”


	2. Ora Et Labora (Work Hard, Pray Hard)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sooo this is where i fly off canon completely and just do my own thing from here on out. everything i do henceforth may be disproven completely by canon whenever we get the next desert bluffs episode. how... thrilling for me.
> 
> if lauren does some shit in the future, are charles and donovan going to end up being a liability for kevin? just some thots here.
> 
> kevin's smile knife here is similar to a corsican vendetta knife. it's small-ish and sort of pretty but best be assured that kevin doesn't need a large knife to do his thing. it's not all about size, it's what you do with it.
> 
> comments and kudos as always deeply appreciated! and remember if the smiling god is a dj, life is a dancefloor, love is a rhythm, you are the music

That night, Kevin lies in bed next to Charles, pretending to sleep, and ponders the day’s events. It’s a very prophetic thing to do, pondering. It lends an air of gravitas, or so Kevin imagines.

They just got done making love, shushing each other and giggling, because Donovan is asleep two rooms over. As trite a cliché as that is, it really was _making love._ Again, it was gentle, soft touches, almost reverent, Charles asking for consent every step of the way. Kevin is beginning to luxuriate in this.

The thing is, it’s not him versus Charles. It’s not him versus Donovan over Charles’s affection. It’s not him versus the town over his dreams. These days, it’s not even so much him versus Lauren anymore…

Maybe the days of _Kevin versus_ are now over. Maybe it’s no longer him against the world. Maybe not everything is a tooth-and-nails battle for survival, maybe not everyone is out to trip him up and punish him for every mistake, every slip-up, for being less than impeccably and perfectly, unflinchingly productive. The concept of a time to rest is foreign to Kevin, except in the most literal sense (a body needs to sleep sometimes. It’s highly inconvenient). But he is starting to suspect that this new thing with Charles might be… something. Something other than the mindless, fleeting fun he first envisioned them having. Maybe Charles is going to be a person he can… go home to. Feel safe with. _Something_.

He wonders, again, about the future. Will they move in together? Kevin likes his house next to the Temple of Joy and would prefer not vacating it. Will they live there together, the three of them? There’s certainly enough space to house Charles’s little library of religious texts. Donovan will need a room of his own, too. Maybe the guest room; it’s not like he entertains guests anyway. They will need new furniture then, maybe a paint job…

Kevin falls asleep thinking of wallpaper patterns.

* * *

 

Then it’s the next day, and life… continues. They get up, they have breakfast with Donovan. Charles grabs his laptop and starts writing applications for teaching jobs in town. Kevin goes to work at the radio station. After the show, he meets up with a group from the Joyous Congregation to discuss the upcoming church potluck and also the rip in space-time that keeps reopening on Pleasant Street and that they really have to do something about. Charles texts him saying that he’s making dinner at his place and that Kevin is welcome to join. Kevin joins because he can’t cook and would have had takeout by himself otherwise, and it turns out Charles’s cooking is to die for.

After dinner, Charles plays with Donovan for a bit before putting him to bed, while Kevin observes them from a cautious distance, thinking about joining them, not yet knowing how to. Once Donovan is put to bed, they sit close together on Charles’s couch, hands joined, waiting until they can be reasonably sure that Donovan is fast asleep. It’s a quiet, domestic scene, but Kevin feels his heartbeat pick up even so. He’s biting his lips in mounting excitement, because this is so _new_ , and so _much_. At last, Charles whispers, “Okay, that’s long enough, I think,” and they let out twin sighs of relief and fall into each other’s arms.

They are all wrapped up in each other, kissing and beginning to grope, when Donovan comes back in to ask Charles for a glass of water. And maybe three weeks ago, Kevin would have permitted that to ruin his entire mood, but now he simply bursts out laughing about it for some reason, because something is intrinsically funny about Donnie standing in the door in his pajamas, total bewilderment on his little face, holding an empty glass.

Life continues.

 

* * *

 

“We should actually have a conversation,” Charles says one day. He says it over coffee at Kevin’s place, which is accumulating a number of Charles’s clothes, toiletries and books, not to mention Donovan’s toys. Donovan is playing outside, painting with colored chalks on the driveway. Through the window, Kevin can see him and his drawings: weird multicolored swirls and enormous, smiling suns.

“I’d love that,” Kevin says, resting his chin on his hands to signify that Charles has his full attention. “What are we talking about?”

Charles takes a sip of coffee. “I feel like we sort of stumbled into things,” he says, “you know, with us and Donovan? I think we owe it to each other to do better.”

Oh. _That_ kind of talk then.

“The fault is mine here,” Charles continues, to Kevin’s surprise. “I sort of sprung this on you, and I never even stopped to listen to your concerns. It’s a difficult situation with me and Donnie, but that doesn’t excuse that. Maybe we should just… I mean, why were you actually so hesitant about this at first?”

Kevin’s first impulse is to wave it all off. _I have no concerns. I’m peachy!_ That is certainly what he would have said – would have been required to say – in the Strex days. But this is not the Strex days anymore. Maybe, just perhaps, he can dare to divulge a little more.

He tries out some possible answers in his mind.

_My dad was an asshole so I never had any positive fatherly role models, thus no one to emulate now, which makes me feel lost._

_I am still trying to unravel which parts of me are Strex and which are me, and I didn’t want anything else on my plate._

_I was scared of the commitment, because long-term commitment felt like being shackled to something once again._

_My past is strewn with corpses._

None of them lies, precisely.

“It was all just very sudden,” he tries. “I never thought about having kids or anything like that before.” (He still suspects the other Kevin deep within him thought about it, but he can’t tell Charles about _him_ now, can he. Someday maybe he will. But now is not the moment to get into all that.)

“Oh. You really never…?”

“I don’t feel like I’ve a caretaking nature.” Kevin idly stirs his coffee. “My track record with these things is… well, I don’t think I really have one.” He chuckles. “The closest I came was when Lauren got me that Strexpet for All Smiles Eve. I really hated it, and I knew she knew I hated it which is why she got it for me, so I ended up kicking it around a bunch.”

“Uh… well… what is a, a Strex… pet…?”

Ah, right. Charles wouldn’t know that. It’s weird to hear someone say _Strex_ like it’s some sound without meaning. It was a dumb name for a company, anyway. Kevin makes a dismissive hand gesture. “It was this little robot that they glued fur on. Like if they made a Roomba to be cute. Like a… like a large furby.”

“Right, so your track record of furby cruelty makes you unfit for childrearing.”

Kevin suspects it’s rather his track record of other kinds of cruelty that might do that. “I’m just not used to all… this.” He gestures out to where Donnie is playing. He plans to leave it at that, but then somehow, without a whole lot of conscious input, his mouth volunteers to say, “And I didn’t want to share you with a kid, which I know was immature and selfish of me.”

Charles’s mouth twitches up into a crooked half-smile for a second. As always when Charles smiles, Kevin’s heart jolts. “You know, I’m kind of weirdly flattered?”

They both laugh.

“Seriously, we’re all immature and selfish sometimes,” Charles says. “You figured yourself out, didn’t you? And in the end, no harm was done.”

Kevin nods. “I’m in this with you two now, but… I can do no better than try. You probably wanted a guy who’s just ready to leap into stepfatherhood, and I’m… not that.”

“I want you,” Charles says and leans in to kiss Kevin hungrily across the table. Kevin feels a tingle down his spine as he kisses back. _I want you_. It clearly conveys more meanings than just the purely carnal one. Kevin can’t remember being wanted before.

“There are also these things,” Kevin says when they break the kiss. “Things I can’t talk about. Things from the past.” In for a penny, in for a pound, he guesses. Might as well broach the topic of all that.

Charles takes a deep breath, then forcibly exhales it. “Yeah, I figured.”

“You… did?”

“I knew from our first night together that something happened to you. Obviously. People don’t just _have_ all these scars. And that one… here.” He caresses Kevin’s neck, so gently that even with the discussion revolving around such a sensitive topic, Kevin isn’t spooked. “It goes around your whole neck. And it doesn’t look like rope so… someone made you wear something around your neck. Something that would chafe. Some dark ages fucking shit.”

Kevin feels his eye sockets widen. Charles doesn’t usually swear, because Charles is usually around Donovan, who is five, and must not pick up bad words. (Charles swears in the bedroom, but only quietly, so that Donovan won’t wake up and hear him from two rooms over.) Kevin looks up from where he has been clutching his coffee cup increasingly tightly and, to his surprise, sees an enraged glint in Charles’s brown eyes. He’s never seen such a thing on Charles before.

“Someone made you wear a collar,” Charles concludes quietly. “For whatever reason.”

Kevin nods. He can’t elaborate yet, he can’t. Something (self-preservation?) keeps his mouth shut. Instead he asks, “Why does that make you angry?”

“On your behalf,” Charles explains simply. He doesn’t ask why Kevin would not understand this, which is in itself a blessing. “You’re amazing, Kevin. No one should have done that to you.”

Kevin wants to argue that Charles barely knows him. But again he doesn’t. He leans in for another kiss and resolves to enjoy this while it lasts. There is only now.

“I like kids, from a distance,” Kevin says finally, bringing them back on topic. “But up close they can get confusing. I just don’t know what to do.”

“Don’t worry, baby. I’ll help when you need it.” Charles offers a half-shrug, taking a sip from his coffee. It’s cold now. “Donnie is a person. Treat him like a person. That’s what it boils down to.”

Kevin thinks he can do that.

 

* * *

 

It’s really not rocket science.

Donovan turns out to not even be the most demanding child. He’s fine playing on his own, coloring or listening to an audiobook. He can’t read yet, but Charles is teaching him a bit, as he is to start school in less than a year, and he can sort of write his name in a way Charles claims he can decipher. He’s left-handed, just like Kevin. He can count up to a hundred, something Charles also claims is an extraordinary feat. Other than that, it becomes clear to Kevin that Charles worries a bit. It seems that Donovan might be too shy, too reticent but also in some areas too self-reliant for a kid his age, in short, he is too used to doing things by himself. Charles fears he hasn’t been enough of a fatherly presence in Donovan’s life, that moving around several times and living in Pine Cliff among the ghosts has not being doing Donnie’s social development any favors. Kevin can’t offer much input there. He tries to remember his own childhood, and from the hazy recollections he gets, he gleans that he and his (sibling? brother? he thinks?) would have gladly had much less fatherly presence than they were getting. But clearly Charles is not that kind of father. He tries very hard to give Donnie the best experience of childhood there could be.

Charles feels that Donovan must be around other children more, so a few times per week, he takes him to the playground. They have a daycare nowadays in the Bluffs, and it’s become a topic of constant discussion. It is arguably the easiest and most conventional way to expose Donovan to other children and ease him into a school-like environment, and it will become a necessity once Charles gets a job (they can’t rely on Grandma Josephine’s goodwill forever) but Charles is strangely reluctant. From what Kevin understands, it’s been a Charles-and-Donnie double act for almost the entirety of Donovan’s life, and Charles is, against his own better judgement, loath to give up on his mother-henning tendencies. Meanwhile, Kevin’s not sure how to bring this up in a way that doesn’t make it look like he just wants Donnie out of the house. So for now, the playground it is. Kevin tags along sometimes, or meets them there when he’s done with the broadcast. He starts turning up in the pictures Donnie scrawls upon printer paper. Kevin likes those pictures: smiling people and a smiling sun, smiling animals and smiling flowers. Everyone has these wide, red smiles. And now there’s a little stick figure likeness of himself added to the ensemble there alongside stick figure Charles and Donovan. Like he belongs there. Like he’s always belonged there. When Kevin asks tentatively if he can take one such drawing and display it in his booth at the radio station, Charles and Donnie both beam at him. Kevin senses he’s done something very right, and it feels right too. The drawing gets a place of honor right under the decorative garland of beaks and teeth, quite prominent on the newly bloodless wall. After all, he can’t have stains on it.

Kevin feels a bit frightened by the prospect that he will eventually have to spend time with Donovan alone without Charles as a buffer, but when it happens, it does organically. Charles is in a phone interview with a prospective employer (the community college) and can’t be disturbed, so Kevin beckons Donnie to follow and slips out of the house with him. They go to the new ice cream place that opened up on the corner of Sunny and Bright Street. Donnie is a bit shy when ordering at the counter, his little hand suddenly squeezing Kevin’s tightly. Kevin blinks away his perplexity and ducks to Donnie’s eye-level so that the boy can breathe “I want pistachio” into his ear like it’s a state secret. “Sorry, Linda, he’s just shy,” breezes past his lips like he’s been doing this for a thousand years. Donnie’s a champ, however, for not commenting when Kevin gets four scoops for himself: vanilla, marrow, strawberry and his personal favorite, teeth surprise.

They sit down and, as Kevin crunches his way through the teeth surprise, Donnie asks a few questions about Charles’s phone interview, then tells a disjointed little story about another kid he met at the playground. Kevin finds himself listening, genuinely attentive and deriving enjoyment from this. Donnie gets a smear of ice cream on his cheek, and is threatening to make a mess on his t-shirt, so Kevin, with a “Here, let me get that,” grabs a paper napkin and dabs it away. He realizes only while he’s already doing this that he indeed just reached out completely without thinking. _Oh, it’s beginning,_ he thinks.

 

* * *

 

It is night – well, it is the time that clocks would make them believe it is night, as the sun does not set in Desert Bluffs. They’ve pulled down the blinds to evoke darkness. Kevin has been trying to sleep for the most recent hour, but it’s difficult to do when Charles is awake, and constantly tossing and turning and shifting next to him. It’s hard to adjust to this after years and years of sleeping alone.

At last, he abandons the effort and turns to face Charles. “Are you going to sleep or not?”

That’s perhaps an unnecessarily rude way to phrase it, but Kevin needs his beauty sleep. He gets cranky otherwise. No one likes him cranky.

“Sorry,” Charles says. “Just thinking.”

Ah. So this is how it is. Kevin props himself up on his elbows, ready to listen. “Oooh, about?”

“You.”

Kevin chuckles. “There’s no need for that, silly. I’m right next to you!”

“But how long will you be?” Charles looks at him. He’s looking worried. “Kevin… are you only here because Donnie worked a miracle?”

Oh.

Huh.

“Why would you think that?” Kevin asks.

“I just… I know you weren’t precisely enthusiastic about Donovan before. To the point where I thought you just… didn’t like him, and that was going to be that. But then he did that… that thing with his planes and you changed your mind. Are you hanging around to see if something else will happen? If Donnie maybe is connected in some way to the Smiling God?”

“Charles, I’m here for you.” Honestly, Kevin thought Charles was aware of that.

“Yeah, but… the other day, you said… I thought…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence but Kevin suddenly and with a scalding wave of embarrassment remembers last week after the service, when he maybe overindulged a little on the communion wine. He’d ruffled Donnie’s hair and called him ‘my little miracle worker’. _Whoops._

Charles continues, “If Donnie doesn’t do anything else extraordinary, will you leave?”

“I’m sure Donnie will go on to do many extraordinary things.” By the way Charles flinches at this, Kevin takes it he’s been misconstrued. “By which I mean maybe he’ll win a spelling bee or something. Get into the elusive Double Harvard after high school. Stuff like that. Unclench.”

“You’re telling me to unclench?” Charles lets out a little laugh. Sobering again, he says, “I guess I’d just like to know that you’re really here for us. Not for what you might think Donnie could do for you.”

Kevin raises his hands, feeling a little helpless with this. “How can I convince you?”

“I guess with time.” Charles rubs a hand across his tired face. “I’m sorry I’m being like this, it’s just that… I think Donnie likes you, and I don’t want him to be disappointed.”

Kevin does a double take. “Donnie _likes_ me?” He has no idea how he accomplished this. Not many people like him at all, although he makes such an effort to be friendly. “Did he say that?”

Charles smiles. He looks so adorable with his fond smile and his mussed bedhead that Kevin’s heart clenches. “It’s more of a vibe I’m getting from him. Like he looks forward to being around you.”

Kevin nestles closer. “Tell me all about the vibe.”

They don’t sleep for another hour.

 

* * *

 

Kevin is tired when he trudges home from the radio station.

He doesn’t even know why today of all days exhausted him so much. Last week during the broadcast, all these obsidian, egg-shaped sculptures twice the size and girth of an average person started appearing all over town, and while everyone had still been speculating what these were, they’d cracked open, releasing freshly-hatched creatures of tentacles and shells and slime, who had taken to the air attempting to hack up buildings and citizens with their beaks. It had been a whole ordeal, especially what with how long it took them to find the right incantations for banishing the beings. Today was just… boring, compared to that. Maybe it’s only now setting in how stressed he’s been by the incident with the eggs.

He unlocks the front door, enters, kicks off his shoes in the foyer and calls out. “Charles…?”

“I’m back here,” Charles shouts back from further within the house. There is also faint music. Kevin yawns and pads down the hallway.

He steps into the living room and Charles is there. He has darkened the room and strung up fairy lights. The space that’s normally occupied by a rug and coffee table has been cleared, all the furniture pushed against the walls. There is a scent in the air like rose petals. Something soft and jazzy is emanating from Charles’s ancient, treasured record player. In the soft mood lighting cast about by the fairy lights, Kevin can see that Charles has dressed up for whatever this is.

“Charles, what is this?” Kevin asks.

For someone who organized this whole surprise here, Charles is anything but smooth and suave about it. Kevin sees the sheepish expression on his face even in the gloom (Kevin generally sees more things than most).

“I heard you say… on the radio the other day…” Charles fiddles with his collar. “Um, well, I heard you talk about how we never went dancing like you wanted. Um. Because I couldn’t find a babysitter. So I…”

“I wasn’t complaining,” Kevin hastily attempts to clarify. “I was… expressing hope that we could go dancing sometime in the future.”

“I still felt kind of bad about it,” Charles says, “So I set up all this here. Is it… is it okay?”

Kevin feels himself blushing. He doesn’t know what to say. And to think, he used to have such a way with words before this very moment, when one offhand comment he made on the radio caused his adorable boyfriend to set up a dancefloor in their living room.

“It’s… Charles, this is…”

“I’ve made us some rum and cokes too, if you want,” Charles says, gesturing at two glasses and a bottle sitting on the coffee table. “I know champagne would’ve been more romantic, but, I felt like you’d appreciate this more.”

Kevin is not proud of it but he all but rushes over. “You got hard liquor into the Bluffs?!”

“Yeah.” Charles grins, looking proud of himself. “I had to spring a bit. But it was worth it. I tried to get that pineapple vodka you said you liked but I couldn’t find any on short notice.”

“Honey!” Kevin quickly grabs a drink and takes a sip to mask just how flustered he’s getting. “Spring on me when you have a job!”

“Just had to do it now. Couldn’t help it.” Charles chuckles. “I just want to see you happy, always.”

“Aww. I want that too.”

Charles clinks their glasses together. They both drink. Liquor is a rare treat in Desert Bluffs, definitely not for religious reasons, it’s simply hard to import to the desert otherworld without paying draconic taxes at the transdimensional border. Kevin relishes this. It’s not the fast-hitting high of Strexpills™ but something more organic, more gradual. He enjoys the warmth spreading in his stomach. It brings back memories, not Strex-memories but from before. Getting tipsy at a staff party at the old radio station. Sitting on the roof of his father’s house as a teenager, stealing sips of whiskey, gazing at the night sky, when there was still such a thing as night.

He blinks back to the present, to Charles, who sets his glass down and offers his hand. “So, may I have this dance?”

Kevin gleefully lets himself be swept along.

 

* * *

 

It’s a sunny Wednesday afternoon and Kevin is on playground duty for the day. This is something he can handle fine, it’s almost like playdates. Those are even better, because as Donnie’s busy playing with one of his little friends, Kevin gets to sit with the kid’s mom and gossip over coffee. Sometimes he and Charles just drop Donnie off and then spend a few hours with the house to themselves. It’s also kind of nice to unleash Donovan onto the playground and watch him with the neighborhood kids. It’s nice listening to their voices and laughter, provided one keeps enough of a distance to not actually hear what those children are in fact saying to each other. Kevin thinks he now has the playground etiquette down pat – the first time he turned up here, he got shot quite a few glares by other attending parents when he lit himself a cigarette. He had smiled apologetically and shoved it into his mouth and swallowed, secretly a little glad that people were glaring at him again, because it meant they were no longer quaking in fear of him.

Now, he sends Donnie off with a probably superfluous reminder to have fun and be careful, nods at the few other parents sitting on some benches a little ways off of the play area and watching over their offspring, finds himself a seat and opens a newspaper. He recalls the Desert Bluffs Daily Courier going out of print after the Strex takeover, being deemed inefficient, and the editor, Lionel Hunt, being relocated to assembly line work. After a lengthy period of deliberation, Kevin has decided to grant Lionel’s eager request to start putting out his paper again here in the new Desert Bluffs. The man displayed such perseverance surviving the assembly line, denying him this now feels like kicking a puppy. During the Strex times, news was relayed by corporate memos or the radio show. There are no more corporate memos (and Kevin will put into the ground anyone who tries to start those again), there is still very much the radio show, and now Kevin has to get used to the thought of rival media in town. Well, maybe now that _idiot_ and his little Citizens For Free Will club will stop _hounding_ him about monopolizing…

He sighs, realizing he’s been staring at the newspaper and thinking about it without reading it. Allowing the Courier to exist is another one of these concessions. It appears that managing a town to the relative happiness of everyone involved is mostly concessions. And the wicked thing is that nobody ever really is totally happy. And while it certainly would be easier to have his friends from the Temple of Joy force a few nice, sorely needed smiles on some people’s faces, Kevin can’t do that anymore, because the part of him that once was a whole other person will wake up and yell at him (and he’s got quite a voice on him – of course he has – he’s Kevin). Without the buffer of Lauren between him and the community, everyone has started bringing their concerns directly to him, no one seeming to be interested in at least keeping up the pretense that the town is being run by an actual government and not Kevin, the radio host and prophet and breadwinner for a small family.

All he ever wanted was to work in radio, Kevin muses as he turns a page. Now it’s like he’s doing that part-time, while he’s a chosen prophet of the Smiling God always. Things were different once.

A scream snaps him out of his reverie. A child has just screamed.

Donovan.

Kevin has dropped the dumb irrelevant paper he was holding and rushed to Donovan’s side within two seconds. Donnie is kneeling by the swings, holding his leg and whimpering, tears streaming down his cheeks. There is… blood… welling up from a scrape on his knee. Kevin feels a roiling dread so intense he almost sinks to his knees by the swings in solidarity.

“Oh, honey. Are you okay? Did you trip?” His hands flutter uselessly by his sides, bracelets rattling. “Does it hurt? Are you—”

Donnie nods fervently. “Hurts.”

“Let’s have a look at that,” Kevin says, attempting to fight down his dread. He’s not very effective. He’s used to the sight of blood, lots of blood, dripping from ceilings, dripping from walls, dripping from people. He’s delighted in it, used it liberally for decoration. Why is it making him nauseous now?

_You could have prevented this._ Kevin doesn’t even have the wherewithal to figure out which part of his mind that is right now. _If you had just kept a better eye on. Charles was wrong about you. You’re crap at this._

“Daddy always kisses it better,” Donovan says.

Kevin puts a hand on his mouth in a vain bid to quell the nausea. He finds he doesn’t want to touch the kid’s blood. He’s sure every adult by the benches is witnessing him having a meltdown, being generally inept, and probably making things worse.

“Well then, let’s get you home so he can do that.” He figures Donnie probably won’t want to walk, all shaky and with all that… blood… just pouring down his leg, so he spreads his arms. “Hop on, I’m giving you a lift.”

They get back to Charles’s place and Charles is almost disconcertingly relaxed about the situation. He radiates calm and confidence as he cleans up Donovan’s knee, puts a colorful band-aid on it, and indeed kisses it better. Kevin watches this happen, fretfully curled up in a kitchen chair, hugging his knees to his chest. He’s glad when he doesn’t have to see any of Donovan’s blood anymore.

Donnie recovers splendidly once he is handed over to Charles. Band-aid administered, he goes to play in his room, where everything is padded and soft and he’s at no risk of injuring himself further.

“Sorry,” Kevin mutters to his knees, looking anywhere but at Charles.

“What for, hon?” Charles asks. He’s washing his hands in the sink. His tone is light, genuinely so, as if nothing of note occurred. He must simply be faking that.

“I messed up,” Kevin says. He ducks his head and awaits his punishment. “I wasn’t looking, and now Donnie got hurt on my watch.”

Charles’s hand is still slightly damp when he comes over and trails it through Kevin’s hair. “Sweetie, he’s got a skinned knee. That happens to every kid. They run a lot and they fall sometimes. He’ll be okay.”

Kevin blinks up at him. No punishment is forthcoming. Is it not going to happen? He can manage no reply save for a confused “Uh-huh?”

“I got scraped up all the time when I was a kid, playing outside,” Charles continues. “One time I fell out of a tree. Didn’t you?”

“I barely remember my childhood at all.” Kevin’s memories of the before-Strex-times are hazy at best. They sometimes come to him in flashes. Of his childhood and teenage years, he recalls barely anything. The day he received the prophecy that named him the next Voice of Desert Bluffs, that same prophecy that also said that he would fail his town and witness its fall. The way everything got so much worse at home after that day. The day he came out to his brother. The day his brother came out to him. Otherwise, blank space. He doesn’t know how he played as a child. Maybe he wasn’t ever a child.

Charles, Smiling God bless him, doesn’t ask. He wraps an arm around Kevin, and they stay that way for a moment, in silence.

 

* * *

 

They have not yet brought up moving in together; maybe it’s too early yet. This means a lot of back-and-forth over the phone about whose place they’re going to be spending the day at. Today, Kevin heads for Charles’s house after work.

He finds Charles and Donovan cozied up in the living room. Donovan is playing with legos while Charles is reading a novel. He’s in sweatpants, in the very early afternoon. Kevin cocks his head at the scene in faint alarm. Maybe he’s sick.

“What are you guys doing?” he asks.

“We’re taking a lazy day,” Charles explains, as if that makes any sense. Kevin cocks his head to the other side. Years and years of Strex conditioning protest this very scene before him.

“A day dedicated to… being lazy? Why would such a thing be done?”

Charles shrugs. “We’ll probably not be getting a lot of those once I have a job. So we’re just taking a day to do nothing. It’s good for your mental health once in a while. Wanna join us?”

The concept still eludes Kevin. Completely. How would one’s mental health possibly benefit from not filling one’s day with useful tasks? Speaking of, there is still some planning that needs to be done for the upcoming church potluck.

“No, thank you,” he says, distancing himself from this unorthodox situation. “I’ve got things in my planner, but thanks for asking.”

 

* * *

 

Charles watches Kevin with slight worry.

Ever since he observed his boyfriend’s bewildered reaction to mental health days, he’s been keeping a stealthy eye on Kevin’s workload. There’s just a lot of it there.

Kevin never seems to rest, never seems to take a second to stand still. When he’s not at the radio station, he’s recording sponsored ads or writing scripts for his show or yet another essay on the Smiling God. When he’s not doing that, he’s busy with church stuff. When it’s not church stuff, it’s other non-church-related community matters. Even their dates consist, when Kevin’s the one planning them, of high-energy activities. He’s teaching himself to cook on the side in order to, as he says, pull his weight in their little household. He’s also looking into transforming the space around his house into a garden on the assumption that planting flowers might be fun and a good look for him. And when he absolutely cannot help but sit down, he is knitting. There’s not a moment in which Kevin is not doing something. He even seems to sleep less than the ordinary person does.

Charles isn’t quite sure why Kevin is so work-oriented, but he fears that this cannot go on forever. Kevin eventually begins to show signs of fatigue, which he cheerfully ignores. Or so Charles thinks, until he spots a yellow prescription bottle on the vanity in Kevin’s bedroom that he’s not seen there before. It’s labeled “Strexpills™ - your daily dose of happiness!”

The bottle is filled to about the three-quarter mark. Charles picks it up and thumbs the label. Strex-pills… that means nothing to him. What is “Strex”? Has he heard that word before?

When Kevin comes home from the store, Charles quite simply puts the bottle down on the kitchen counter and asks, “Kevin, what are these?”

“They’re a stimulant,” Kevin says casually and continues putting groceries away. “Don’t worry, I don’t use them.”

“Then why do you have them?”

Kevin sighs, running a hand through his hair. “They’re from before… well… they’re a reminder.”

“A reminder of what?”

“A reminder that I can always work harder!” Kevin chirps. “With the right incentive.”

Charles feels his mouth tugging into a scowl. He doesn’t quite know what’s going on – it’s hard to tell sometimes with Kevin – but whatever it is, it doesn’t sound healthy. There is something… weird lately about how Kevin generally comports himself, something almost manic about his restlessness, something desperate in his smile. Like this is some sort of spiral. Like there is a screw in there being wound ever tighter. He’s never great at taking breaks or dedicating a portion of his day to self-care at the best of time, Charles is coming to learn, not when there’s something else to be done that qualifies as work. But it’s getting worse. Like the more obviously Kevin needs and wants to rest, the less he is letting himself. “I think what you actually need isn’t an incentive, it’s a day off.”

“Oh, don’t frown like that.” Kevin reaches up but then puts his hand back down, as if restraining himself from using his fingers to tug Charles’s mouth up into a smile. But surely that’s absurd. “A day of what?”

“Just off. You know, o-f-f. A day off work.”

Kevin laughs. “Oh, Charles. Sweet Charles. Impossible.”

“The town won’t collapse if you don’t micromanage it for a day. Look, I know you’re filling in for what Lauren used to do, and I know it’s all a bit much…”

Kevin talks over him with the smooth, practiced ease of someone who talks for a living. “Astute observation, but I’m not stressed. I like having a busy day. I’m fine.”

Charles lightly caresses the space beneath Kevin’s eye-holes. “You’ve got circles. When we spend the night apart, do you sleep?”

Kevin huffs, his face somehow managing to convey an eyeroll with no eyeballs there to roll. He assures Charles that he’s doing well and that he’s not even close to his personal limit yet, and squirrels out of the conversation. He starts looking healthier again, the dark half-moons beneath his sockets disappearing, and Charles is almost ready to believe that he maybe just worries too much, maybe his whole single dad situation has turned him into a mother hen. The next time he touches Kevin’s face, his fingertips come away with a slight dusting of concealer.

“Hiding it from me is no solution,” he remarks, and Kevin gives him a smile that is hard to describe. Adjectives that come to Charles’s mind are not made for describing a smile. Words such as “translucent” or “haunted”.

“How fortuitous, then, that there’s not an actual problem,” Kevin says brightly before heading upstairs and staying buried in his office until dinner. Charles has witnessed once how Kevin writes his scripts for the show, how he remote-views things like the community calendar. It inspires awe, and looks tiring.

Two days later sees Kevin next to Charles on the couch, head in Charles’s lap, half-asleep in the middle of the afternoon. Charles pets his hair while he rereads Dune for the fifth time, wanting to preserve this tranquil mood forever.

“Charles,” Kevin murmurs, yawning and shifting a little. “Poke me.”

“Hmm?”

“Poke me. Really hard. In the side.”

Charles hesitates on the unusual request. “Why?”

“Because I need to get up. I’ve got work.”

Charles gives Kevin’s hair one more soothing stroke. “Honey, you just got home from work.”

“There’s always more to do.” Kevin pushes himself up onto his elbows. “I should go check in with city hall…”

“You mean the skull on a stick in the middle of town? I’m sure there’s nothing new there.” It hasn’t gotten past Charles that the people of Desert Bluffs have, for lack of any actual system of government, started leaving their grievances, scrawled onto post-it notes, pinned to the cow skull. Kevin collects the new ones every day. His upstairs office is littered with them, to the point where it’s becoming swamped. Kevin stays up well into the night reading them, puzzling out which ones make sense and what should be done about them. It’s unfortunate that they have no mayor to attend to this.

“I should at least check if those humming specters from the other day are still there…”

“I actually took care of that this morning, they’re gone now.” And it was pretty tricky to manufacture the correct ritual to banish them, if Charles says so himself. He has obtained all available religious texts that Kevin’s ever written, and it took a lot of combing through them all to get it just right.

“Oh… great…” Kevin rubs at where ideally his eyes would be. “But there’s still the upcoming church potluck…”

Charles puts an arm around Kevin. “Honey… when actually is the upcoming church potluck?”

“I don’t know that, Charles,” Kevin says in the patient tone that people use for explaining concepts to outsiders or small children. “Nobody knows that. But it’s coming up, and when it does, we must be prepared.”

“You’re prepared enough,” Charles says. “Why don’t you relax?”

“Why do you want me to succumb to inertia so badly?” It’s not said in a belligerent way. All Kevin seems to want to express is genuine confusion.

 “It’s not succumbing. It’s just… taking it easy.”

“Why!”

“So you can do better later. People usually are at their best when they’re getting a healthy amount of rest and relaxation.” Really, Charles had assumed this sort of thing was self-evident to any reasoning adult. Kevin gives him a sort of unconvinced half-frown.

“I get that, but a whole day?”

“You’ve heard of weekends, right, babe?” This is getting ridiculous. Charles has seen people in the Bluffs observe the weekend.

“I don’t take weekends off,” Kevin explains. “They’re for church.” And of course, he does the majority of the services himself.

“Incredible. How have you not keeled over yet?”

Kevin shifts a little in place. “Come on, Charles. Why is this such a big deal to you?”

Charles shrugs. “I started doing lazy days with Donnie because, well, he’ll be starting school soon. And I know how school can get overwhelming, and there’s a lot of pressure on the kids. So I want to demonstrate to Donnie that in the future, if he ever feels stressed, he can take a mental health day and I won’t judge him. The education system perpetuates a culture of overworking that’s hazardous to a kid’s health. I guess I’m just passionate about this now.”

Kevin is silent for a minute. He seems to think this over, align it with his worldview. At last, he lets out a large, put-upon sigh. “Fine,” he says. “I guess I could also try taking one day off.”

 

* * *

 

They decide that Kevin’s Day Off should be the very next morning. He spends the evening giving advance warnings to everyone at church, at city hall and Vanessa at the radio station (if she indeed exists) that he won’t be coming in as usual. Then, there’s nothing else to do with the rest of the night but worry himself into a knot considering all the things that could go wrong if Desert Bluffs is left to her own devices for an entire day.

Charles notices the tension that has taken hold of Kevin, takes his hand and leads him to the bedroom. “Lay down,” he says, gesturing at his bed.

Kevin feels his excitement spike. “Donnie’s not asleep yet,” he breathes. Charles put Donovan to bed mere minutes ago. By now, Kevin is familiar enough with the kid’s sleep schedule to predict that any suspicious noise now will alert him.

“No, yeah, probably not. You’re getting a back rub.”

“Oh.” That sounds a little less exciting. But Kevin imagines a back rub can be nicely escalated into more. By the time they get to that, Donovan will most likely be sleeping.

Kevin takes his shirt off and lies down on the bed, wondering what is to come. Charles’s hands are large and warm as they settle on Kevin’s shoulders, caress a line down his back.

“Babe, you’re really tense,” Charles says.

“Who, me? I’m always relaxed and… mmh… cheerful…” Whatever Charles has started doing back there, it feels heavenly. Again, his every touch is gentle, but systemic. Kevin can feel the tension he would avidly deny having drain from his shoulders.

“Sure,” Charles says with a fond chuckle, his hands seeking out all the pressure points in Kevin’s shoulders and softly but firmly teasing them into relaxation. Kevin muffles his pleased sighs into the pillow. Not stirring out of this position is surprisingly easy, even as his cock starts taking an interest; after ten minutes of this, flipping around and going through the motions to initiate intimacies seems too much of a chore. He’s way too comfortable right here to move now. As Charles takes his hands off, Kevin can do no more than murmur a vague thanks and try to tug him down into a spooning position. Original objective abandoned, Kevin dozes off right then, feeling only a deep calm.

Charles probably strips him down then for the sake of comfort, because Kevin awakens the next morning in only his underwear. It’s about the same time his alarm would wake him normally, which is to be expected after so many years of rising at a fixed time. Kevin is already halfway out of bed when he remembers that today is the fabled day off that Charles seems to think he needs or deserves. So, a bit nonplussed by the novelty of it all, Kevin does a shocking and revolutionary thing: he doesn’t start his work day. He rolls over and goes back to sleep for another hour.

When he finally does get up, notably later than usual, he has the house to himself. Charles is off running some errands so that Kevin doesn’t have to, and he recently finally relented about enrolling Donovan in daycare, so that’s where Donnie is and will be until lunchtime. Kevin doesn’t have a lot of his own clothes at Charles’s place, so he puts on one of Charles’s t-shirts, heads downstairs and makes himself breakfast. He sits by the window with a large cup of coffee, wondering what on earth he’s supposed to do with a whole day of no work.

He could get to his own place and fetch his knitting stuff, get started on a new sweater, maybe, or make himself a nice shawl, fit to become an heirloom. But does that count as work? He could always write a backup script for—no, that one’s definitely work. Or maybe he could go see if—nope, also work. This is proving very tricky.

_Look at us,_ that other person down below, deep within, chortles. _Been a while since Strex, and we still have no idea how to not work. Might as well still be the Strex days, huh?_

_Oh, do be quiet._ Kevin rarely has patience for the other Kevin, the one he’s begrudgingly coming to accept is just a memory of a person he no longer is. But he has a point. What did the Smiling God free them for if they don’t even know how to enjoy that freedom?

Kevin finishes his coffee and ambles through the house in search of a diversion. He ends up in the room that holds Charles’s small library. Most of the texts here deal with comparative religion. If Kevin reads these, is it work again?

Fortunately, there are a few novels here as well. Kevin grabs one at random and gets comfortable on the small couch that Charles put in here. It’s not very captivating and soon enough, he migrates back to the bedroom where he stashed his phone.

“Disconnect for a day,” Charles had advised him. “Don’t even look at any work stuff on your phone. If anyone calls or texts, you can afford to not be there for one day.” But Kevin’s not going to look at work stuff. He’ll just play a game or something.

Sitting down on the bed, Kevin takes his phone out of the nightstand and switches it back on. There aren’t any missed calls, or new messages in the Temple of Joy groupchat, which is just as well. The temptation to backread would have been too much.

Here on the bed, it smells most strongly of Charles. Kevin doesn’t wear a scent, but he likes the aftershave Charles puts on. Really, he could bury his nose in the pillows and just inhale. Now that he’s no longer tired and worried, thinking back on last night, on Charles’s hands all over him, sends a spark through Kevin’s whole being. He scrolls through his camera roll to a few pictures he recently took of Charles. There’s a very nice one of him pulling up his shirt to expose his chest (Kevin requested he do this). And then the ones he took last week when Charles washed his car, when he became aware of Kevin watching and intentionally got suds all over him, soaking the front of his t-shirt with water. They’d laughed about it at the time. So trite and silly. Kevin shoves a hand down his pants. He’s half-hard remembering this.

He strokes himself unhurriedly, smiling down at the pictures on his phone. There’s not just arousal in it but another, answering warmth as he thinks back on taking the pictures, each one of them commemorating a joyful moment spent with Charles. He gets so absorbed in this that he only distantly hears the front door unlock, and he’s only brought out of it when the subject of his affection appears bodily in the door to the bedroom.

“Oh, hi.” Charles grins. “Interrupting something?”

Kevin lowers his phone. Charles immediately spots his own picture on the screen, his smile widening. “Wow, babe. Missed me?”

As most always, Kevin decides to own it. “Depends, are you going to get over here?” He tries to make come-hither-eyes before remembering that that is going to be difficult with no eyes there. He sprawls out on the bed instead, spreading his legs a little, putting himself even more pointedly on display, then thumbs the head of his cock and makes a show of sighing.

“Oh, _hell_ yeah.” Charles is on the bed before Kevin can do more than blink. He makes a delighted noise as Charles captures him in a kiss, as Charles’s hand closes around his cock and pumps it once. They grin against each other’s mouths. So that’s what makes these days off work worthwhile, huh?

“Wait, wait,” Kevin breathes, breaking the kiss. “You picked Donnie up from daycare yet?”

“Not yet.” Charles brings his hand up for a second to glance at his watch (Kevin whines). “We’ve got an hour.”

Kevin nods. “Go on.”

Charles suddenly slides lower and closes his mouth around Kevin’s cock quite without warning. Kevin lets out a high, keening sound, eyelids snapping shut. No one’s sucked his cock in… in…

“O-oh… Charles… m-mmh…”

Charles sucks him in deep until he hits the back of his throat, humming lowly. Kevin feels the vibration of it pulse through him, and he tips his head back, clenching his teeth to encase a scream. Charles moves off for just a second, looking up at Kevin with immeasurable fondness, and says, “We’re alone now, hon. I want to hear you.”

Kevin feels weak. He might melt here. His breaths are coming rapidly. “Screamer,” he pants.

“Scream then.” Charles licks his lips. “Hold nothing back.”

He licks a stripe down Kevin’s cock and Kevin whimpers.

“Your voice is so gorgeous,” Charles says before mouthing at the head of Kevin’s cock, licking up all precum that has accumulated. He bobs his head down, taking Kevin onto his tongue again, swirling it around the shaft like it’s a popsicle, and Kevin holds nothing back. He screeches to the heavens when he comes, loud enough that perhaps even the Smiling God can hear him.

“So that’s why we take time off work, huh,” he says about five minutes later when they’re facing each other on the bed, still hazy in the afterglow. Well, Kevin is. Charles hasn’t even taken his jeans off so far.

Kevin reaches blindly (he’s way too lazy to open his eyes now) to undo Charles’s fly and slip a hand inside.

“You don’t have to,” Charles says (he’s so scrupulous about these things). “I’ll be fine here. Take five if you want to.”

Kevin smiles and shakes his head. While it sure is nice that taking a nap is on the table for now, he doesn’t want to. Sleeping through the day sounds… well, not unproductive. The p-word and its negative are banned here now. It’s in the Desert Bluffs charter. Kevin put that to a vote back when they were establishing these things and everyone said yes. The truth of the matter is, he wants to enjoy every single second of this strange and precious day of no work. And it’s going to be very enjoyable indeed with Charles here like this.

“Hey,” Charles says. His hand has found purchase quite naturally on Kevin’s hip. “Is this my t-shirt?”

“It sure is.” Kevin thought this would be obvious. It’s a slogan t-shirt, the slogan being “theologists do it biblically”. Not like Kevin owns such an article.

“I love you in my clothes,” Charles says.

Kevin grins, absurdly pleased by the compliment. “I love you in anything!”

“I _love you,”_ Charles says outright, scooting closer for a kiss. It might be the first time they’ve come out and said this.

 

* * *

 

Charles is in his study trying to prepare himself for an interview with the dean of the community college when he hears the doorbell ring.

_It’s Kevin,_ is his first thought, _he forgot his keys._ But Kevin would have called ahead before coming over, as would most other people Charles knows. He shrugs and answers the door anyway. Maybe it’s the books he ordered. Can’t ever have too many books on comparative religion.

He opens the door to be faced with Lauren Mallard, former mayor, current… well, Charles doesn’t actually quite know what she’s doing currently. He’ll ask Kevin later.

“Hi!” she says, her brilliant smile contrasting weirdly with the tattooed frown on her face. “So glad to catch you at home.”

“Can I help you, Ms. Mallard?” Charles asks.

His feelings for Lauren are… conflicted. He pities her for having a frown tattooed on her face, and being removed from office in that sudden upheaval. But she is somehow not a very pleasant person to be around, even though she’s always smiling and attempting to spread cheer. Is she friends with Kevin? Sometimes it appears that way, sometimes it doesn’t. Whenever Charles brings her up in conversation, Kevin usually will absentmindedly pat his own scarred cheek and change the subject, citing that talking about Lauren puts him in a bad mood, and no one likes being in a bad mood.

“Help me? Well, I don’t know about that!” Lauren says now, voice pitching higher at the end of her statement as if it were some hilarious punchline or pithy remark, although Charles cannot for the life of him find anything witty or funny in it. “I was just walking by your house and it occurred to me that we never really just sat down and had a nice little talk since you moved here!”

“We sure didn’t.” Charles makes no move to invite her in to sit and talk. He keeps his voice ambiguously amiable.

“I heard you’re applying for the chair of theology at our community college!” Lauren chirps. Her mirth is about as natural as Styrofoam. She talks like she’s on the TV selling laundry detergent, like every sentence is a sales pitch. “How exciting that must be for you.”

Charles cocks his head. Since obviously her excitement for him isn’t sincere, there must be some angle here. What is she getting at? Why is she really here? Charles isn’t great at subtlety, doesn’t want to be either. He prefers communication to be straightforward. “Should I… not apply at the community college?”

“Whatever do you mean by that?” Lauren laughs. Now, Charles is a man who adores happiness and positivity in all the ways that Desert Bluffs embodies. He loves smiling and laughter. But Lauren’s laugh sounds like someone is strangling a rubber duck.

“I… don’t know.” Charles grins awkwardly. Just to make small talk, he adds, “Sometimes I think… I don’t want to feel like I’m getting jobs offered to me because of… Kevin instead of my own merit.” It has certainly been useful for job-hunting that he knows Kevin, and that the whole town knows he knows Kevin. Nothing is ever said outright during interviews, but… people are aware they’re talking to the man Kevin keeps gushing about on the radio.

“Ah, Kevin. Yes.” Lauren laughs again, even more peppy and fake and migraine-inducing. “I wouldn’t worry about him if I were you!”

“I… don’t. I don’t worry about Kevin.” He has no reason to worry, currently. Kevin is doing okay and can handle himself. Charles trusts him. What else is there?

“That’s great!” Lauren says, beaming. “You know, I’ve known Kevin for a good long while now. And I’ve known him as a person of high standards! What doesn’t meet them usually gets discarded.”

Charles wonders, is she referring to herself or implying something else here. Kevin had nothing to do with Lauren being booted out of office, but then he also hadn’t seemed and doesn’t seem terribly broken up about it.

Charles is, at the very least, now genuinely listening to her. What was it Kevin said they used to do together? There is so much about Kevin that he doesn’t know. Lauren, apparently, has more information.

“I’ve even seen Kevin’s opinion of any old thing change on a whim,” Lauren continues. “He would praise someone to the high heavens one day, and then redecorate the walls with them the next! Haha! What a fun time we had at Strex.”

There is that word again. It’s puzzling. Everyone in town sometimes mentions it in casual conversation, and everyone seems to know what it means, everyone, that is, except for Charles and a handful of other people who also moved here relatively recently. A google search for the word has turned up nothing except one small article about an opera house in some other town, completely irrelevant. Besides, what is “redecorate the walls” supposed to be a metaphor for?

“I’m not quite sure what you’re referencing here,” Charles says with an apologetic smile that’s maybe more of a grimace.

“Oh, he didn’t tell you? Interesting!”

“Ms. Mallard, I don’t really…”

“Listen,” Lauren says. “I am here to help you! Maybe not in a mayoral position anymore, but simply… as a concerned friend! All I’m trying to impress on you is that Kevin can be, and I’m saying this as someone who’s been very close with him a long time, a bit capricious. And I know what you want is stability for yourself and your cute little boy, how old is he again? Five?”

“Yes.”

“Just remember that when… _if_ things ever go south – which I sure hope they won’t! I wish you all the joy in the world – I’m on your team.”

“How nice of you, Ms. Mallard,” Charles says. “But I think I will be fine. I happen to trust Kevin, pretty completely.”

Lauren giggles. “That’s so good for you! Isn’t love great? Well, that’s all, I guess… just wanted to drop by and assure you that if you ever need a helping hand, you can call on me! And I’ll come. Obviously, I know where you live!” She gestures at his front door, which she is clearly occupying.

“Obviously,” Charles says as woodenly as possible.

“Obviously,” Lauren repeats. She’s still smiling. “There is so much to know about you, Charles! The daycare that your son goes to, for example. I know that, too.” Lauren is no longer smiling.

“Of course,” Charles says politely. “There is only one daycare in the Bluffs. It’s a small town… everyone knows where everyone goes.” His eyes meet Lauren’s for a lengthy moment.

“Oh, hi, people!” comes a voice from behind Lauren’s back. For a moment, Lauren gains a starkly yellow halo, then Kevin steps around her, taking his huge yellow hat off. He’s come from church, obviously.

He pecks Charles on the cheek. “Hi, honey.”

“Hey.” Charles tries not to show too openly how relieved he is that Kevin is here. He’s not sure how successful he is. Relief must be rising off of him like steam.

“Lauren, what a… pleasure,” Kevin says in that syrupy voice he reserves special for Lauren. “Was there something you needed?”

Lauren accepts this for the clear dismissal that it is. “I was just leaving,” she says with a nervous chuckle.

“Good! Job hunting must be so time-consuming. Especially with…” Kevin gestures at Lauren’s face, “that whole situation. Best of luck with that!”

In one fluid movement, he grabs Charles’s hand, tugs him inside and slams the door in Lauren’s face.

“What was that all about?” he asks once they’re by themselves, much less syrupy now. He’s no longer wearing his work smile or using his work voice. He sounds… normal now. Emotionally neutral. It’s a rare treat, reserved for Charles alone, and he loves it. He loves getting to see what Kevin really feels, what he really is like beneath the public persona.

“I was going to ask you that, actually,” he says. “I have… no idea what Lauren wanted. She… threatened me? I think?”

“Weird,” Kevin says, turning away to take off his shoes and jacket.

“Also I think she made a threat against Donovan?”

Kevin spins around. “She did _what_.”

Charles shrugs. “I don’t get it either. What does she gain by threatening us?”

Kevin doesn’t answer. He looks… piqued. Okay, he looks pissed off. “Oh, the nerve of her. To bring Donovan into this. He’s only five.”

“Into what?” Charles asks.

Kevin plays deaf to that too. “In what position is Lauren to make threats right now? Oh, I’m going to… I’m going to…” His hand grips the knife on his belt by his side. Kevin always carries that knife. Charles has often wondered why. It’s not a large knife, just a slim, pretty, lacquered vendetta switchblade. But it’s still a fact of life that Kevin always has it with him. Charles suspects that, when they spend nights apart, Kevin sleeps with it under his pillow. Why someone in such a happy, loving, positive environment as Desert Bluffs would need to carry a weapon at all is beyond Charles.

Kevin, perhaps picking up on the way Charles is looking at him, lets go of the knife. “I’m going to have a conniption,” he finishes the sentence. “I’m going to have just a fit if she goes on like that.”

“We don’t want that,” Charles mutters. His eyes keep straying towards the knife.

“We really don’t,” Kevin says darkly.

 

* * *

 

Charles goes off to his interview the very next morning. “Call me when you have any news,” Kevin tells him. “Maybe after the show. Or during the weather, or during the show. I actually don’t care. I just want to know.”

He’s almost as excited as Charles is himself. Of course, obviously, he could have called the community college or anywhere in the Bluffs that Charles would like to pursue a career at and drop a few casual words regarding the way the immediate future was to be shaped, and the new employee that the future held. Charles told him no. Apparently he wants to get hired by merit of his being best suited for the position, not because of who he’s dating. To Kevin, who has been moored in the cutthroat world of Strex management until relatively recently, this sentiment is a bit strange. You grapple for every step up the ladder and push off the competition on the way up, and anyone or anything willing or able to give you a leg up is to be exploited. If he let Charles in on this, Kevin is beginning to think, he would probably take moral offense. Charles doesn’t seem to want to exploit him.

_We have morals now,_ he thinks to himself. _We can **afford** morals now. Fun._

_Hope the change of pace won’t be too much for you_ , Kevin-from-the-past snarks.

Kevin-from-the-present goes to work. He doesn’t get any calls throughout the broadcast, but there is a text afterwards as he drives himself home. It’s not about the interview, merely a request to pick Donovan up at daycare.

“Ok,” Kevin texts back, one-handed as he turns left into Vulture Street, “but how did the interview go???”

He’s still waiting on a reply when he arrives, with Donnie, at Charles’s house. Charles isn’t in yet, so Kevin reckons that unfortunately it will fall upon him to prepare lunch. He’s not making as much progress with the cooking thing as he would like. This isn’t all that surprising considering the various things he’s had to eat in the past under Strex, probably numbing his taste buds once and for all. _I guess there’s always sandwiches,_ he thinks while checking the fridge and simultaneously listening to Donnie, seated at the kitchen table, talk about his little daycare friends.

“So Roger said,” Donnie is saying, “it was unfair that Nancy’s been hogging the swing set all morning, so it’s okay…”

“…to _push_ her off the swing? Hardly.” To tell the truth, it’s what Kevin would have done. But things take on a different light when Donovan’s involved, strangely enough. Many life lessons Kevin has learned are suddenly not things he wants Donovan to be taught. It’s the weirdest double standard.

Again, Kevin considers the refrigerator. There are two juice boxes left. Someone had better put that on the grocery list. “Do you want grape or apple juice with lunch?”

It is then that Charles elects to burst in, a bottle of champagne tucked under his arm and a wide smile on his face. “Guess who got hired!”

Kevin slams the fridge door shut. “Babe! You got the job?”

“I sure did!” Laughing, Charles gathers him up in a hug then easily hoists him and twirls him once around the kitchen. Kevin has never physically been picked up and spun before. He lets out a surprised peal of laughter. He has probably also never felt this elated by the success of someone else.

“Babe, that’s wonderful.”

Charles sets him down on the kitchen counter, reaching instead for the champagne. “Sorry I didn’t text you earlier. I wanted to surprise you and, and celebrate a bit.”

“Oh. Neat!” Career advancements haven’t been a cause for celebration in Kevin’s life before. A new job means being spiritually broken. A promotion means that while the death threats get fewer, the workload gets more grueling. Or at least that’s how it used to be. Maybe now it’s different.

Charles is having some trouble opening the champagne. “Give me,” Kevin says. He’s well used to opening bottles with his teeth or, depending on how the evening goes, the teeth of other people. Charles pours two glasses and they clink them together, and then both against Donnie’s juice box. Since everyone is feeling way too celebratory to cook, they end up ordering pizza for lunch. It’s a beautiful afternoon. Well, all afternoons are beautiful in the Bluffs. But today is especially so, because today Kevin’s got his gorgeous boyfriend beaming at him and his second glass of champagne going straight to his head making him bubbly, and giggly, and light.

They get handsy as soon as Donovan goes up to his room. They kiss, and it’s a little messier than usual as they’re both a bit tipsy now, it’s the epitome of unproductive behavior, and Kevin doesn’t give a shit. He is a sun, full to bursting with light, and warmth, and light again, slow and silly and soaked with adoration.

“I love you,” he sings into Charles’s open mouth and Charles kisses him breathless, chuckles morphing into twin moans of appreciation as Charles trails his hands down Kevin’s back, resting for a second at the small of his back, dipping lower, cupping his ass and pulling him closer, bodies flush against each other.

“Gorgeous,” Charles murmurs, looking down at Kevin through lidded eyes, _seeing him_ – scars and all – and Kevin believes him. “Come to bed with me.”

“In the middle of the afternoon?” Kevin puts a hand on his chest, playing scandalized. Charles laughs and kisses his cheek, over the scar tissue.

“You think I don’t want you in the afternoon? You think I ever want to be doing anything but this?”

Kevin reaches up to caress his face. Such a beauteous jawline. “When do you want me most?”

“All day. All night.” Charles groans. “God, Kevin. You drive me so…”

“Come on up, then. Before Donnie hears.” Kevin grabs what’s left of the champagne as Charles half-carries him to the bedroom.


	3. Two Gods In This Church

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> exams are OVER so now it's time for another chapter
> 
> thank you all so much for the nice comments on the last one! further feedback and kudos are of course highly appreciated :) 
> 
> this is a chapter in which i will be taking a little risk and adding in a character i freely made up, a desert bluffs double of a night vale citizen i wish we saw more of. is this a good choice for me to make? only time will tell.
> 
> honestly the thing i felt worst about in the mudstone abyss was the horribly mistreated amusement park employee. i felt i just had to fix this. i can excuse murder but i draw the line at labor exploitation

“Can I sleep with you tonight?” Donovan asks.

Charles, who has been reading by the light of the nightstand lamp (a waste of energy really, considering that outside, beyond the blinds on the windows, it’s still bright and sunny) rolls over in bed to face him. “Had a nightmare?”

Maybe it’s that dream about the swooping birds again. Ever since Donnie did his miracle, the birds don’t appear to everyone in town every night anymore. Dreams now have… variety. As if some message has been successfully passed on, some mission accomplished by… someone.

Donnie, looking very small standing in the door there, shakes his head, fiddling with the sleeve of his pajamas. “There’s a monster.”

Charles runs a hand over his eyes. “A real one?”

“Don’t know.” Donnie shuffles his feet a little.

“Under the bed again?”

“In the closet.”

Charles moves to get up. “Do you want me to look at it?”

“You’re not scary enough,” Donovan says with a little pout. “It has to be Kevin.”

“Well, Kevin’s sleeping at his place tonight,” Charles explains. They’re not in a stage of the relationship yet where they spend every night together. Sometimes, other things come up. That’s fine, although of course Charles vastly prefers waking up with Kevin in his arms. He’s so sweet just after waking up, so cute with his sleepy smile… Charles sighs. “Maybe he can look at it tomorrow.”

“If it’s still there tomorrow,” Donnie says. “Can I sleep here tonight anyway?”

“Of course, buddy.” Charles pats the empty space beside him. Donovan climbs into bed and curls up in a ball against Charles’s chest. Charles feels him trembling a little. Whatever may or may not be in his bedroom, he seems really afraid of it.

Unable to sleep what with his son shivering like a freezing kitten against him, Charles reaches over to the nightstand, grabs his phone and texts Kevin.

**Donnie misses you** , he writes.

Not a minute passes before his phone lights up with Kevin’s return text.

**Does he?? :O**

Charles furrows his brows and checks the time. Is Kevin doing an all-nighter again?

**What are you doing up?**

**Recording stuff 4 the pledge drive lol… I forgot** , Kevin sends back, including a microphone emoji, a smiling moon emoji, and an emoji of a tired office worker pushing a rock up the side of a mountain.

**Don’t overwork yourself** , Charles replies. He then adds, **Donnie was scared of a monster in his bedroom.**

**A real one???** Kevin asks.

**Wouldn’t know. He said only you could get rid of it. I’m not scary enough apparently, haha. Kids, right?**

Kevin, somewhat cryptically, sends an emoji of a figure climbing out of – or into? – a second-floor window. Charles drifts off to sleep still wondering about the emoji.

He’s woken by the sound of someone quietly, stealthily opening the bedroom door. His sleep-addled mind jumps to Donnie’s monster. Is it real after all?

But the dark silhouette that inches into the room is comfortingly familiar. It’s not a monster. It is Kevin.

“Hi,” he whispers in the velvety darkness. “I’m here now.”

Charles rubs his eyes, waking up more completely. “You seriously came all the way here? In the middle of the night?”

“Sure.” Charles hears the rustling of fabric, then Kevin slips into bed behind him. He reaches over Charles and pats the blanketed lump that is Donovan.

“Hi, pumpkin.”

Donnie leans into the touch. His breathing eases.

Charles smiles and falls back into an easy sleep surrounded by his family.

 

* * *

 

Kevin wakes up in Charles’s bed by himself.

This is not uncommon to occur ever since Charles started working at the school. He keeps earlier hours than Kevin. Glancing at the alarm clock on the nightstand, he figures out that he slept in a little later than usual, but he still has a good few hours before he has to head to the radio station. There is a yellow post-it-note taped to the alarm clock. Wondering what important message Charles might have for him, Kevin peels it off.

It only says, “Good morning, sunshine!” next to a drawing of a heart.

Kevin runs a hand across his face and smiles until the corners of his mouth hurt. What did he do to deserve such an adorable boyfriend?

The only odd thing is, Kevin muses, how Donovan hasn’t woken him up earlier with a demand for breakfast. Where is he anyway? Kevin gets out of bed, puts on a fluffy bathrobe and slippers and investigates.

Donnie is not in his room, but Kevin hears a noise from the bathroom so he knocks. “Hey, kid. You in there? Is everything okay?”

“Uh, yeah…”

Something in the kid’s voice makes an alarm go off in Kevin’s head. Something isn’t right, he just knows. “Are you sure? I’m coming in.”

Donovan is perched on a stool, on his tip-toes, peering into the mirror. Kevin’s favorite red lipstick, showing signs of rough handling, is clutched in his fist. There are disconcerting smears of red all over the sink and Donnie’s hands.

“Who told you you could get at my makeup? Do you have any idea how much that cost?”

Caught literally red-handed, Donnie turns around. He hasn’t so much painted his lips as drawn two red lines from the corners of his mouth all the way up to his ears. It looks, well, like an enormous, bloody…

“I… I wanted a smile like yours,” Donovan says.

“No.” Kevin barely recognizes his own voice. It seems to come from far away. Everything seems to come from far away. He grips the wall for support. His other hand lifts to his face, retracing the jagged curve of an old, gnarled scar. “No, kid, you don’t want that.”

“Yes, I do!” Donnie stomps his foot. “Everyone always says how smiling is so important, and you’ve got the biggest smile out of everyone!”

“There is nothing wrong with your smile, kid.” _Get it together,_ Kevin tells himself. “Your smile is already perfect. You take after your dad! He’s got the prettiest smile I’ve ever seen, and it’s nothing like mine.” He kneels, bringing himself to Donovan’s approximate eye-level. “Let’s wash off all this mess and get breakfast, okay?”

Kevin grabs a baby wipe and Donovan and plops the latter down in his lap as he sits on the edge of the bathtub. Donovan attempts to squirm out of his grasp, howling like he’s being murdered. Kevin has murdered quieter folks.

“No-o-ooo! I don’t want it off!”

“Hold still—”

“Nancy has a smile like that!”

“Nancy drew that on with sharpie, and I’ll have a little talk with her parents about this.”

“Nancy said her sister said that when we’re grownups they give us a smile like that, but if we’re good they’ll do it sooner!”

There really are such grisly rumors circulating among the kids? “Now that’s simply a lie. Oh, oh no, sunshine, please stop crying. Nothing to cry about, is there?”

Donnie shakes his head, tears spouting from his eyes. He opens his mouth as if to verbalize the reason for his crying fit, but then simply devolves into another volley of sobs.

Kevin remembers something Charles told him early on about parenting. “Little kids say weird things sometimes,” he said, “and do stuff you don’t understand. It’s not creepy or wrong or bad, it’s just… they’re still figuring out how the world works, what things are, how to say stuff. Everything is happening to them for the first time. Imagine if you got dropped into a world where everything is new to you, and you have a vocabulary of a few hundred basic words at your disposal to communicate your experience. And everyone you’re trying to talk to has lived in this world and spoken the language for decades and they don’t think like you. Whenever Donnie says something I think is weird, I try and get into that mindset and reverse-engineer his statement from there. You’ve got to try to _think_ five-year-old.”

This has been surprisingly helpful to Kevin at various times, but now he’s simply stumped. He reckons Donovan is crying because it’s an overwhelming situation and this is the only way he knows how to blow off steam. So he lets Donnie cry into his bathrobe and strokes his hair, and that seems to be all he can do.

Donovan eventually calms down and allows Kevin to clean up his face. There is a sizeable smear of lipstick, tears and snot on Kevin’s robe now. This is simply the way of life, but if someone had told him half a year ago that he’d be spending a morning coercing someone else’s snotty kid to blow his nose, he would’ve laughed at that Cassandra of domestic foresight.

Donnie clings to Kevin all the way downstairs to the kitchen, where Kevin makes waffles, both their favorite comfort food. It’s not the healthy breakfast Charles insists upon for Donovan, but it is what’s needed at the moment. He pours syrup on Donnie’s waffles and liberally sprays whipped cream on his. Winking at the kid and putting a finger to his lips – shh, don’t tell Charles – he sprays some whipped cream right into his mouth. Donnie, still a bit teary-eyed, giggles, and it’s sweeter somehow than the mouthful of sugar and fat that Kevin just ingested.

He thinks he’s dealing with this alright – he tosses his robe in the laundry hamper and the mangled tube of lipstick in the trash, and that is that. He goes to the radio station and probably says something or other into the microphone. He even gets back in time to make lunch for Donnie, and it turns out completely edible. It’s all okay until Charles gets home.

_I’m just not going to say anything,_ Kevin thinks to himself as he hears Charles open the front door _, I won’t mention the whole thing at all and he’ll be none the wiser and he’ll go on to not see how I’m fucking up his kid._ He sits on the bed and steels himself, willing the usual smile onto his face, preparing to pretend that it has been a normal, tranquil morning. (He could really use some Strexpills™ right about now.) But then Charles enters the room and Kevin takes one look at his face and he cannot deceive this man.

He crumbles, and the whole story just pours forth, in some fit of wild, untamed emotionalism.

Surely Charles will see how bad this is. Surely now, for Donnie’s safety, he will leave. No more Charles, no more Donovan. It’s all over – this new family, love—

“Oh, baby,” Charles says. “Let’s sit down, okay?”

There’s nothing but kindness in his tone, and Kevin is reeling.

“Take my hand – try and stop hyperventilating for me?”

Kevin hadn’t known he was hyperventilating until Charles pointed it out. He lets himself be taken by the hand and led to sit with Charles on the bed.

“Honey, I’m sorry,” Charles says. “I’ll talk to Donnie later, I’m sure he didn’t mean it.”

Kevin blinks. This is not what he was expecting. “What?”

“You’re upset,” Charles says, “because of what Donnie did, right? But I’m sure he didn’t mean to make light of your scars, or ruin your lipstick.”

“No, no, Charles.” Sometimes Kevin’s honestly amazed by how Charles seems to view the world. Is he not seeing the real problem here? “I did the wrong thing here, not Donnie. I’m, I’m messing everything up, aren’t I? Why would he want to look like _me_ , when I’m _this?_ Who told him that this is a good way to be? How’s he supposed to grow up nice and normal with me around being an abomination?”

Charles is silent for a second. His beautifully extant eyes go wide and round. “Oh, baby,” he then mutters. “Oh, baby.”

“What?” Kevin repeats eloquently.

Charles takes a deep breath. “Donnie didn’t… it’s just a thing kids do, you know. One of his friends said he had to do a thing, so he did it. And he’s… kids that age want to imitate what their parents… um, parents or other adult authority figures do. He’s imitating you because you’re someone he admires, that’s all.”

Kevin certainly clocks the little hesitant pause after “parents”, but that’s a conversation for another day. “But he shouldn’t! What if one day… well, how long until he asks to borrow my smile knife or something else fucked up?”

“Then you’ll tell him why he can’t. Besides, we model behavior for Donnie. Kids aren’t big on ‘do as I say, not as I do’. I mean, must you carry a knife around the house?”

Kevin shakes his head. He honestly can’t remember the last time he even used the smile opener for its intended purpose. Carrying it with him is just a habit now. He likes to have it near when he’s dealing with Lauren. That’s all. “Guess not.”

“Well, there we go,” Charles says, as if to state, problem solved. But it isn’t.

“Is that enough?” Kevin asks. “I really don’t want Donnie ending up the way I did. I’m afraid I won’t set a good example for him, and you’ll see that and you’ll leave me.”

Charles is silent for a moment, processing this. Then he says, slowly, “Baby… how did you get these scars?”

Kevin shakes his head, and continues shaking his head. He can’t. He’s said too much already.

He covers his mouth, attempting and failing to suppress a few dry, hacking coughs. Before he knows it, Charles is rubbing his back and muttering soothing inanities. Kevin’s eyes sting, a phantom pain; he wants to claw at the sockets in frustration. He hooks his hands into the bedspread instead. Charles has seen enough crazy from him for one day.

“Sorry,” he says, dabbing at his eyes, compelled to wipe off phantom tears that aren’t there. “Didn’t mean to get all weepy on you.”

“Weepy…? Kevin, is this you crying?”

Kevin nods.

“You can’t cry?”

“I used to be able to.” Kevin sniffles. “But not since they took my eyes.”

Kevin feels Charles pulling him close, hugging him tightly. “Who did this to you?”

It is a question Charles has asked before and will most likely ask again, but Kevin can’t answer it. Not today. The events of the day have tired him out, and he’s not sure he can take all this on. He shakes his head once more.

“Who, baby? Because whoever it was… I’m not a violent man but so help me god…”

“They’re gone now, it’s okay.” Kevin returns the hug, not in the Strex style, he simply loosely wraps his arms around Charles’s neck, leans his head on his shoulder and holds on. This way is perfectly fine. “I’m fine.”

Charles only sighs in reply to this.

 

* * *

 

Kevin is standing in a field, his gaze turned up to the sky. Desert Bluffs only has vultures, but this sky right here is filled with starlings. They swoop overhead in a looping, repeating pattern, until they begin to dive, crashing like tiny, ineffectual kamikazes onto the ground.

_Ah,_ Kevin thinks, _a dream. That dream again._

And then, for the first time, the dream changes.

Kevin can only observe detachedly as his dream-avatar turns away from the field and the spectacle of the birds and begins to walk in the opposite direction. He soon reaches a house, his own house from the waking world. It looks different, like the place he lived in as a child, but he knows with that rock-solid dream knowledge that it is the same house he lives in now. His brother is sitting on a dilapidated couch in the front yard holding a broken guitar and staring, mouthing silent condemnations. Kevin doesn’t care. He goes inside.

Inside looks just like it is in the present; at the very least that’s right. He walks up the steps, then into the upstairs bathroom.

Donovan is there, perched on a stool in front of the mirror. In his hand is Kevin’s smile knife.

Kevin already knows what he’s going to see. Dread wrenches at his insides as Donnie turns towards him. Blood is dripping from two gashes in his face.

“I wanted a smile like yours,” he says.

Kevin shoots up into awareness, drenched in cold sweat, screaming.

Beside him, Charles also wakes up with a sudden gasp and wince. “Holy shit, Kevin.”

Kevin stops screaming. “Sorry.” He sits up in bed gasping for breath, wrapping his arms around himself. Warmth will not come.

“Nightmare?” Charles asks.

“Yeah.”

“Those birds again?”

Kevin’s hands clench, nails biting half-moons into his arms. “Yes… the birds.”

“Hrmm.” Charles reaches out for him, evidently still half-asleep, his hand patting the bedsheets. “’S unsettling,” he slurs, eyes already squeezed shut again.

“Sure.” Kevin dodges the hand and gets out of bed. “I’ll just be, ah… I’ll just… be back in a minute.”

Charles mumbles something else that Kevin doesn’t catch. He’ll probably be dropping right back off, lucky him.

Kevin then does something that later, in the light of day, will seem silly to him, but at the moment there’s a simple urge to do it there. He sneaks from his bedroom into Donovan’s room, careful not to wake him up too, and then just stands there looking at him. His face, of course, is completely normal. Of course.

With the quietest sigh he can muster, Kevin bends down and wipes a strand of hair away from Donovan’s forehead. The boy’s lids flutter a little and Kevin snatches his hand back and waits with bated breath. But Donnie only turns over with a tiny little snuffle, and Kevin’s whole being quakes.

_Little sunshine,_ he thinks.

_How horribly fragile,_ he thinks also.

He doesn’t get a lot of sleep for the rest of the night, or the night afterwards. He stays up working until he feels himself nodding off at his writing desk. If he sleeps, maybe he’ll have the dream again.

Coffee doesn’t quite cut it, not after years and years of being put on stimulants against his will. Kevin’s built up an immunity to _anything_ by now. He makes his coffee so strong that Charles claims it gives him toothaches, but he barely feels an effect at all.

Two nights into this, Kevin folds his hands and kneels and asks the Smiling God for guidance. But gods are fickle creatures and none is forthcoming.

But there is always one more thing to fall back on.

The third consecutive sleepless night finds Kevin contemplating doing something a little extreme. Charles is catching on to there being something wrong, and Kevin won't be able to evade his concern much longer. Something must be done. He knows going through with his idea would be an unwise decision, not to mention potentially harmful, but the part of him that wants this, mute for most of the time, has been getting louder. Because… well.

Life is going great, isn’t it? He’s doing things that are inarguably good, and he has been gaining things as an effect of that. He has a loving, handsome and supportive boyfriend, a prestigious job doing what he loves, a nice house, even the makings of a family. His community is beginning to treat him like a person again. No longer is he constantly feeling like having to rend himself apart, to wring every last drop of _productive potential_ out of himself for the benefit of a faceless corporation that would just as likely kill him as pay him a livable wage. The Smiling God has looked upon him with mercy and made him a chosen prophet. By all rights, he should be incandescent with happiness.

And he is happy. A lot of the time. But some of the time he’s something _other_ than happy _._ Happiness is now something that takes hold in fleeting moments, not so much a forever promise. And the other emotions are so _complicated_. There is a whole spectrum of them, and maybe there should be, but they’re messy and they’re tiring and they involve a lot of long-winded coping and dealing and analyzing and communicating. Kevin doesn’t view his life as a progress towards something, getting something (getting better?) but it occurs to him that this is in some strange way a step back, but he’s tired of the other emotions. Just Happy was so much easier. He wants Just Happy again. Pure Happy. Artificially and Violently Induced Happy. That kind.

The yellow prescription bottle ended up in the bathroom, in a mirrored cabinet mounted above the sink. Kevin grabs it and unscrews the cap with shaky fingers. He shivers with longing as he recollects how it used to feel, that shock of liquid heat surging through his veins, like boiling from within. One or two of these pills each morning and you worked a 36-hour-shift without complaints and with a smile you couldn’t get rid of even if you wanted to, which of course you didn’t. No sadness, no pain, no exhaustion: only total, manic glee. Strex had passed these out among the employees like candy. It had been quite impossible to exist in their Desert Bluffs without.

_Strexpills™ – Your Daily Dose of Happiness!_

He wants it again. He wants it so much he’s aching with it.

The side effects though… whoo, boy. But it can’t be that bad, certainly. A lot of the old brainwashing has worn off by now. Taking that into account, there won’t be any… unpleasantness. No… red little outbursts like there used to be. He can handle himself. And just for a few hours, maybe for a day, there’ll be complete, unmitigated joy again.

Maybe just one for now. Maybe just a half…

“Kevin?” Donovan asks.

Kevin whirls towards the door, only barely suppressing a shriek. His hand shoots out, knocking the pill bottle over, some of the little yellow pills spilling into the sink before he can reach out and shakily steady it again. Donovan is in the door, blinking blearily at him. “What’s that?”

Kevin bites his lower lip. _Well, shit._ “Ah, those are…”

(Quick, what is the most innocuous thing that comes in pill form?)

“…vitamins.”

“Okay.” Donovan rubs at his eyes. “Can I have one?”

“Ooohh, _no_. No. They’re… for adults.” Kevin collects the wayward pills, hands still shaking, and screws the cap back on. What is he doing? Really, what is he _doing?_ This, now, with Charles and Donnie in the house? What _possessed_ him? (What if there was a red little outburst?) “They don’t taste good.”

“Bitter?”

“Very.”

“Yuck.” Donovan sticks his tongue out.

“What are you doing out of bed anyway?” Yes, good. That is normal and appropriate to ask. He’s reining it in.

Donnie lifts an empty glass that he was holding. “I was thirsty.”

“Oh, of course.” Kevin takes the glass and fills it with tap water. His hands _barely_ shake anymore when he gives it back. “Here you go, pumpkin. Let’s get you back to bed, then.”

As Kevin tucks him in, Donovan turns his face up to him, touches his arm with one small hand and says, “The sun illuminates your path specially, for you are beloved, as you are chosen.”

It is the second time Kevin’s heard Donnie make such a pronouncement. And wasn’t there a peculiar sort of shine in his eyes as he said it? Kevin suddenly remembers that this boy has already worked a miracle here once.

“I’ll keep it in mind, pumpkin,” he says, and feels weirdly cheered up as he heads to bed.

Later he will go and collect the pill bottle from the bathroom. He’ll walk it over to the trashcan and then stand there for a while with it in contemplation. But he can’t take this step yet. He will take the bottle back to the bathroom and put it in the cabinet again, on the highest shelf, at the very back, where Donovan can’t possibly reach even if he stands on a stool.

 

* * *

 

The start of the new term at the community college has swept Charles right up. He is already grading quizzes regularly in the afternoons. Teaching again is wonderful to him: he hadn’t been able to do much of it in Pine Cliff among the ghosts, and he’s glad to get back into it. The few lectures he’s started doing have been great so far. He likes his students: they study hard and turn assignments in on time, every single one of them. They take notes when he speaks and don’t disrupt. Never any complaints about early morning classes, steady and great turnout, splendid work ethic. Everyone in this town seems to have that attitude in common. They tend to their jobs, schoolwork and other obligations like clockwork, they never complain, they always have that smile on. Like Kevin.

(Charles wonders why he’s thinking of it as ‘that smile’. As if every Desert Bluffs citizen wore the same smile.)

It makes for a pleasant teaching experience, but sometimes Charles does wish his students were a little more inclined towards critical thinking. Some of the younger ones are, but they seem almost… guilty about it, defiant about it, as if expecting some severe punishment for voicing an opinion in Comparative Religion 101. Charles has seen students flinch from him when he gently corrected them. It reminds him of how Kevin will sometimes flinch from him when he raises his hand abruptly or picks up a kitchen knife or when they have those little… not even arguments, just differences in opinion about doing the dishes or finding a babysitter or what the phrase “opiate for the masses” really means. Anything that looks like a threat to anything but total, all-encompassing harmony will evoke the flinch. Sometimes it’s phrases that to Charles seem completely innocuous. And then of course there was that incident recently with Donnie, which Kevin, for a couple of days, seemed uncharacteristically harrowed by. He has asked, of course, because he wants to avoid hurting Kevin. Kevin’s been evasive. He doesn’t want to talk about it, whatever _it_ is, and Charles respects that. But…

Kevin is charming and nice and _so pretty_ and eloquent and, in the strangest ways, kind when it strikes him, and he’s got intellect, if a quaint sort. He’s witty, confident, easy-going, powerful in an attractive way, he’s… he’s it all, to Charles. And someone hurt Kevin very badly in the past. Charles doesn’t have any specifics, doesn’t know who or why or when, all he has is rage, building up to biblical proportions. It grows with every flinch, with every bit of discomfort he observes, with every time Kevin’s hand sneaks up to his neck as if he expects the collar there.

Who did this to Kevin? Who did this to the town?

His thoughts keep straying back to that, even now as he’s sitting in his little library and quietly grading papers. Occasionally, he gets up and peers into the living room to check on Donnie, who has occupied the floor to assemble his new model plane. Charles is going to help with that once he finishes up here, and later when Kevin comes home from the radio station, he’ll probably want to take a thousand pictures of them both for the scrapbook he’s starting.

His wristwatch emits a little beep, an alarm he set. Charles switches on the radio, because it is time to put Kevin’s show on. He’s still a few seconds late so he only just catches the last few notes of the intro music, which in actuality is a recording of Kevin himself playing the acoustic guitar, a long, long time ago, or so Kevin revealed to Charles, swearing him to strict secrecy.

“It is Gnawing Day, Desert Bluffs,” Kevin is saying. He always sounds so perfectly serene on the radio. Charles loves this. Charles loves Kevin.

“I know many of you will be observing this charming tradition of ours today and take time to really appreciate your wonderful clean, sharp teeth. Some listeners have sent in suggestions for popular gnawing items such as rock candy, beef jerky, raw meat, beams of wood, the concept of ennui, that green and oozing substance that keeps pouring out of that strange well on Carcass Square, and of course bone. I myself certainly am not exempt from participating in this local holiday that was first created, it is said, in ancient, prehistoric times by the Desert Bluffs Dentists Association. With me in the studio right now I have a massive chunk of hardened caramel which I will be gnawing on… indulging my sweet tooth in particular.”

Kevin chuckles, as if picturing the multitudes of listeners who will now bury their heads in their hands and groan at this atrocious play on words. Charles is no exception. Sweet tooth indeed. Kevin is a known menace when it comes to candy. Whenever Charles brings candy into either of their homes, it’s anybody’s guess if Kevin or Donovan will decimate it first.

“Doing so during the broadcast would of course be inconvenient to you, listeners, as well as a bit unprofessional of me. But be assured that I’ll be gnawing vigorously during the pre-recorded sponsored ad segment and the weather. And now, the news.

A note of caution to those of you planning to visit the Spinning Smiles Amusement Park today or in the near future. Kindly assisted and supported by the Citizens for Free Will – hi, Adam – the amusement park employees have recently formed a union and are now striking. A union spokesperson in a badly vented tortoise costume has handed me a leaflet with their demands, which I also have with me in the studio. They demand, it says, a 20% pay raise, the abolishment of the 36-hour-shift, safer working conditions and the right to a lunch break. The situation is complicated by the fact that nobody in town seems to know who the amusement park employees are, where they came from or who’s in charge of them, making it difficult to ascertain who should address these demands. I hope to the Smiling God that it’s not me, listeners, as I already have enough on my plate.”

Charles shakes his head. He’s been in Desert Bluffs long enough to know – know with a certainty – that before long, Kevin will step up and take care of the strike. He will complain about it, but he’ll find some way to settle it. The whole town is his obligation.

“The Citizens for Free Will, unsmiling as ever, have asked me through disdainfully curled teeth to pass on that they will be handing out flyers on striking etiquette for anyone wanting to but unsure how to support the strike. You can acquire one such refresher at the Rec Center on Rapture Street. I am told that it is uncouth behavior to cross a picket line or to harass the pickets verbally, physically or by means of any curses, hexes or jinxes. ‘You got that, bug-lover?’ one of their members asked me, to which I sort of shrugged.

On the occasion,” Kevin is saying, “I hope my patient listeners will permit me a brief editorial.” He goes on in his sermon voice as the background music changes. “Desert Bluffs can look back on a proud history of resistance in the face of corporate greed. And while, sure, that didn’t always, um, work out for the best, a temporary setback is no reason to abandon the whole concept. Personally, it makes me happy to see this community finding back to its roots. Now, I know this might sound unusual coming from me, but I’m completely—”

Charles misses the rest because it is at this moment that Donovan abandons his toy and enters the room. He stands in the doorway, points at the radio set and announces: “Dad’s on the radio!”

Charles swears the world stops.

“Yeah,” he manages. “That’s his job, being on the radio.”

Donnie considers this. “Every day?”

“Except for Saturdays and Sundays.”

“Cool,” Donovan says, and goes back to his model airplane.

Charles is left sitting there, papers forgotten, thunderstruck. He leaves the library to find wherever he put his phone, thinking maybe he should call Kevin or text him, tell him about this incredible milestone.

He doesn’t hear Kevin going on to say, “—completely in favor of showing solida- of showing s-sol-… haah… _solidarity_ , there it is, with your fellow workers. Sorry for the little mishap there, listeners, just tripped the old conditioning for a second, you know how it is. Did you know that ‘union representative’ was one of the trigger phrases that used to make me fly into a blood-rage? Well, not anymore, Desert Bluffs! This is my program, and I will endorse what I like.”

 

* * *

 

It’s another church day. Charles doesn’t always frequent the church, he is a theologist and not necessarily a believer, but he goes on occasion, to observe the congregation and because it makes Kevin smile. He leaves Donovan with Grandma Josephine out by the car lot. Donnie gets fidgety halfway through the sermons, and Josephine and the Eriks don’t attend church for the obvious Erik reasons. Charles half-expected there to be tension over this with Kevin, seeing as Desert Bluffs is a fairly obvious theocracy, but it never happened. Going to the services isn’t mandatory here. Most people do go, out of genuine belief or because Kevin can get awfully snippy at any one person he repeatedly doesn’t spot in church. Not Josephine, though. Charles isn’t sure what the deal is, but she seems to enjoy a kind of grandmotherly immunity. Half the city calls her “grandma”, Kevin included.

Charles is just leaving Josephine’s house and about to get into his car when he is approached by a man he doesn’t know.

The man is immediately remarkable by his facial expression. He is, quite uniquely to Desert Bluffs, not smiling. In fact, he looks downright dour. Something about him seems distantly familiar, although Charles would swear he’s never seen this man before. The nose…? The shape of his eyebrows, the tilt of his mouth…?

“Hey,” says the unsmiling man. “You that Charles fella?”

“Yes,” says Charles, quickly checking his wristwatch, hoping to communicate that whatever this guy wants, he’d better make it quick. “Can I help you? I’m headed to church.”

“The name’s Adam.” He waits for a second, as if expecting the name to spark recognition. None is forthcoming. Not only is it an insanely common first name to have, Charles also has no idea how it should be relevant.

“Should I know you?” Charles asks bluntly. Maybe he could have phrased that in a friendlier manner, but hey, he’s the one being held up by a stranger in a parking lot here.

“Nah, why should you,” the man named Adam mutters, sounding almost a bit bitter. He makes a dismissive hand gesture, this again oddly familiar. “I mean, why would he have told you. Anyway. A few of us here in town got this club going, called Citizens for Free Will. I’m the chairman. Here’s our pamphlet.”

The guy takes a pamphlet out of his denim jacket and gives it to Charles. Oh, alright. He’s just looking for members for his organization.

“Great. Thanks,” Charles says without real conviction. Ingrained politeness forces him to add, “What is it you, um… do?”

“We lobby for more grassroots democracy in Desert Bluffs,” Adam explains. “We attempt to dismantle propaganda and conditioning and spread unbiased information. We push for workers’ rights and the separation of church and state.”

“Oh.” Charles sucks in a breath. “Um, pretty solid theocrat here, so…”

“Really?” Adam looks at him like he just said he wants the green and oozing substance from Carcass Square for dinner. _Where has Charles seen this facial expression before?_ “Is anyone _seriously_ a theocrat? In this century?”

By now, Charles just wants to get rid of this guy, so he replies, “I happen to think it’s a good look on my boyfriend.”

Something in Adam’s face twitches in something like disgust. Charles feels himself growing heated. What is this guy’s problem?

Suddenly, Adam takes a step closer. Charles tenses. “If I were you, I’d grab the kid and get out of town before things get dicey,” Adam says. “I don’t know what he thinks he’s doing with you two, but he’s dangerous. He’s no good. He gets people hurt. Sooner or later, the other shoe _will_ drop.”

“I take it you’re referring to Kevin?” Charles asks coldly, meeting Adam’s eyes. He has a few inches on this guy. He’s not intimidated. “Do you have any sort of problem with my boyfriend?”

“Yeah, Kevin knows what problems I have with him.” Adam spits into the sand. “But listen, I’m not threatening you here. I’m offering to help. If you need to get out, you and the kid, when the other shoe does drop, call the number on the pamphlet. The Citizens will be there for you.”

“You know, Lauren Mallard said much the same thing.”

“She did? Probably had her reasons. Can’t trust her. Used to be in cahoots with him during the bad old days.”

“But I should trust you. A total stranger.”

“Look, I know how this must seem, but I’m not the enemy here,” Adam insists. “Don’t gotta trust me, but listen. The church snagged you right quick when you came into town and all I want to ensure is that if you must pick a faction to ally up with, you do it with your eyes open.”

“ _The church_ didn’t _snag_ me. I asked Kevin out on a date.” Charles sighs. “Look, I don’t care about… factions or whatever. I came here to study the church and to raise my son in peace, and that’s what I intend to do. With Kevin.”

“Gotta be a bit of a saint, yourself, huh,” Adam says wryly, “to trust him with a kid after what all happened in the Strex days. Guess you weren’t there, but…”

“Strex,” Charles repeats. “I keep hearing that word. What is it?”

Adam blanches. “What… is Strex?”

“Yeah! What is Strex!”

“He… didn’t tell you. About Strex.”

The same reaction as Lauren. Anger instead of false cheer here, but essentially the same immediate expression of incredulous doubt. Charles is now seriously wondering about all this.

“Look, I trust Kevin…”

“Shouldn’t. Not if he didn’t even tell you about Strex. The fucking nerve of him.” Adam shakes his head. “Ask him! Ask him and see how he justifies what he did.” He starts to walk away towards a truck that presumably belongs to him. It looks even more beat-up and ancient than Charles’s Honda.

Charles is left standing there with a pamphlet in his hand that he wants to throw away, or rip up and then throw away, or rip up and then toss it in that Adam guy’s face.

He pockets it for later.

 

* * *

 

When he sits down in church, he attempts to get that strange little incident entirely out of his mind by focusing on his notes. He bought a notebook when he first arrived in Desert Bluffs, intending to fill it with his observations on the Joyous Congregation. As of yet, only a few pages have anything on them.

The first page is simply a list with things to buy for the new house. The second page reads,

** Joyous Congregation **

-happiness, smiling

- ~~bugs~~ centipedes

-Smiling God (is a centipede?) devours sins

-recurring motif of teeth (centipedes don't have teeth? or do they?)

**Kevin** _[this underlined thrice]_

-founded the religion, apparently

-some sort of prophet? legit?

-impressive public speaker (beautiful voice)

-very cute

Underneath that, Charles has jotted down Kevin's phone number and a few iterations of his name with hearts drawn around it. That is the extent of the research that has been done. It is very important research.

By the time the service has ended, Charles feels calmed in a way only Kevin’s sermons can cause. To his slight dismay, however, he discovers that once again he forgot to take notes. It’s always like this. Charles heads into church determined to collect data for the paper he is writing, but then finds himself utterly enraptured by Kevin. One would assume the magic would wear off of the whole thing as the weeks of waking up next to Kevin stretch into months, but it is not so. Yes, he can start the morning with Kevin as the utterly prosaic, sweaty, drooling occupant of the other bedside, but here in church he is an ephemeral glimpse at divinity. It doesn’t matter that Charles knows that Kevin burnt his tongue on his morning coffee just about two hours earlier, that Charles knows about the many little moments Kevin lets all his projected cheer and generalized benevolence slide to hiss profanities at the guy in front of him in traffic driving like an idiot, or that Kevin sometimes hums Walking on Sunshine in the shower.

If Charles walked up to the pulpit in the middle of the homily and grabbed and kissed The Prophet Kevin, he suspects he wouldn’t taste coffee. The Prophet is a different entity to Regular Kevin who falls asleep with his knitting on his lap and plays hopscotch with Donovan and whom Charles once caught in his booth doing a little dance to the weather. Which one does he love more? It is a question he never considers. They _are_ the same person, after all. Different and the same at once, and there are frequent overlaps. Charles adores his boyfriend. Charles reveres the Prophet.

He doesn’t leave with the rest of the congregation. He stays seated. Kevin spots him and they exchange a long, meaningful glance as Kevin dismisses the assistant pastors. Charles walks up to the pulpit when it’s only them.

“Great service,” he says. “Very inspiring.”

Kevin, tidying up the altar, preens a little. The Prophet is fast making way for ‘just’ Charles’s boyfriend. “Oh? What did it inspire you to do?”

Charles kisses him. He doesn’t taste coffee. What he tastes is sunlight made tangible. _We will be light, and light again._

“I have some questions,” he says afterwards, glancing at the empty page of the notebook still in his hand. “For, you know, the study?”

“By all means.” Kevin waves a hand invitingly as he takes a seat, quite irreverently, on the edge of the altar stone.

“What is the teethmilk for?”

“I like milk. I like teeth. It’s symbolic, probably.”

Charles chuckles a little. Serves him right for expecting to get a straight answer here. “Aren’t you lactose intolerant?”

“Oh, I don’t let that stop me.” Suddenly Kevin’s arms are around Charles, pulling him closer, flush against Kevin. They kiss deeply, hungrily, once more. Without quite thinking, Charles sets the notebook down on the altar next to Kevin, wrapping his arms around him in turn.

Charles laughs a little nervously. “Kevin, we are literally in church!”

Kevin grins up at him. “ _My_ church.”

The words are like a sudden rush of heat. Charles has to grab the altar for support as all his blood, within a second, pools downward. A sound escapes him that he didn’t quite know he could make.

Kevin’s grin is now a smirk, teeth glinting. “Oh, you like that, huh?”

Charles can do nothing but nod.

“You like how you could bend me over and have me right here and no one, except perhaps the Smiling God, could say anything?”

“F-fuck. Babe.” He does like that. But the endearment feels wrong as it slips out. Too… mundane. This is, after all, a place of worship. And so he will worship.

He kneels, a supplicant before the altar, seeking a blessing. He’s delighted to find that Kevin has elected today to wear a skirt under his robe, it will make this a lot easier.

“Babe…” No. “Love.” Slightly better. “Can you maybe… say something?”

Kevin shifts, adjusting his position to look down on Charles. “Like what? Oh, your consent stuff?”

(Charles will register this whole sentence later, and feel a chill at the use of ‘your’.)

“N-no, well, that too, but I mean…” Charles takes a deep, shaky breath. He never talked to anyone about this little... fantasy of his. “Could you… pray?”

Kevin doesn’t just laugh, he cackles. Charles feels himself blush all over. For a second, he very much wants to sink into the floor.

“Fetishizing my religion!”

Charles sputters. “I’m… ah… sorry… that was a dumb thing to suggest…”

Kevin’s laughter echoes in the empty church. Splayed out on the altar to his god like some delectable sacrifice, robes and skirt hiked up and completely at ease, he gives Charles a playful nudge with his foot. “Relax! I’m kidding. I'll do you one better.”

Kevin tips his head back, closes his eyes and, as Charles presses a kiss to his thigh, he begins a hymn. _“I take my warmth from your great warmth…”_

As Charles busies himself, Kevin’s legs thrown over his shoulders, mouth working and hands gripping the warm sandstone of the altar, he strains his ears for the hymn faltering, waiting with shortness of breath for that moment in which it tips over and dissolves into moans.

 

* * *

 

Only when they are already driving home, now with Donnie in the backseat, does Charles remember that pamphlet burning a hole into his pocket, and that unsettling conversation earlier in the morning. He glances over at Kevin, who is casually resting his feet on the dashboard now, sipping a milkshake he insisted they get at the drive-through.

And why not just ask?

“I met a guy called Adam, says he knows you. Do you know who that might be?” Even if it’s nothing, Kevin knows everyone in Desert Bluffs.

Kevin’s foot slips off the dashboard so abruptly he almost knees himself in the face. “Sure!” he says, glossing over that ungraceful little moment as is his way, with a big smile. “He’s the chairman of the Citizens!” The smile abruptly vacates him. “My brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah i went a little "author of the journals" there, sorry. desert bluffs abby is HERE!!! i just really, when i heard that there was an organization called "citizens for free will", wanted to do something with that. why not have it be run by kevin's estranged sibling? we are going to have some Fun with adam in the future.  
> next up is a chapter in which charles will ask some questions and receive some answers, which unfortunately only raise more questions. that's the pitfalls of dating a man with a capital b Backstory.


	4. The Truth Will Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> no sex for now! sorry bout it! instead: some cameos by characters you didn't think would turn up in this one.
> 
> warning for some descriptions of past violence in the last paragraph of the chapter. if you need something specific tagged in the future, don't hesitate to tell me.
> 
> you will find yourself disliking my OC. this is fine. i made him to be a tool in the plot, not my precious child that you must love. there's more to him we'll get to later but he's also just simply being an ass abt a lot of shit.
> 
> I LOVE EVERYONE for commenting on the previous chapters. kudos or comments remain highly appreciated! 
> 
> a song recommendation for this chapter specifically: "i will" by mitski

_Whisper a dangerous secret to someone you care about. Now they have the power to destroy you, but they won't. This is what love is. - Cecil Palmer, knowing what he's talking about._

* * *

 

“So,” Charles says. “When was I going to learn you had a brother?”

“Hold on a moment,” Kevin says. They have just arrived at his home. “Donovan, sweetheart, why don’t you play outside for a moment?”

Donnie grabs his new model plane without complaint and heads for the door. Before he can run out, Charles gently holds him back. “Don’t forget your sun hat, buddy.”

Donnie pouts. “Don’t wanna.”

“Why not?”

“It’s dumb,” Donnie explains helpfully. Charles has no idea why, but Donovan hates his blue sun hat. But they live in a desert town now. It’s unfortunately necessary.

“You know what’s dumber? Heatstroke. You don’t want to get sick from being in the sun too long, do you?”

Donnie pouts, but lets Charles put the sun hat on him. As long as he doesn’t try to bury it in the yard again… it will be fine.

“And remember what we said about playing in the garden,” Kevin throws in.

“No running by the pool?”

“And?” Charles adds.

“And no ripping up the flowers, because Kevin would get sad.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Charles spots Kevin standing a little taller, putting his hands on his chest: _that’s me, being considered_. His little gardening project is coming along nicely. Charles wonders how Kevin gets his flowers to grow so excellently in a desert; when he asked, Kevin winked and said something under his breath about “divine favor” and “earthworms”.

“Very good,” Charles says, and lets Donnie go. He turns back towards Kevin as soon as he hears the screen door to the backyard clatter.

“This probably looks weird to you,” Kevin says, “but it’s not like I was trying to keep my brother a secret. I just don’t really… think about him. We’re not on speaking terms.”

“Still,” Charles says. “That’s your immediate family.”

“No. I’m disowned, technically.” It’s a bit sad, to Charles, the light and breezy way in which Kevin says this. A little too close to his work voice. “Adam doesn’t… recognize me as family.”

“He has disowning power?” It’s hard to imagine that anyone in this town can do anything to Kevin that he doesn’t like.

“He _is_ older.” Kevin shrugs. “It doesn’t bother me.”

_Of course it doesn’t,_ is what Charles restrains himself from saying. Really, what is it with Kevin and wanting to appear unbothered by anything and everything? _It’s fine, I’m fine, nothing’s wrong, you worry too much._ It’s becoming a constant refrain.

Instead of saying anything like that, he takes the pamphlet out of his pocket. He hasn’t had time to look at it yet.

There is indeed a phone number. Underneath, it says _Adam Carlton, chairman and founder._

“Adam Carlton,” Charles reads out. “Is that your family name?”

Kevin crinkles his nose. “Definitely not. My brother took his wife’s name at the wedding. Ugh… Sue Carlton.”

The amount of disgust Kevin displays is almost comical. Charles laughs. “So that’s it? You guys don’t talk because you don’t like his wife?”

“If only it were just that.”

Kevin doesn’t seem willing to elaborate further, so Charles flips through the pamphlet again. It seems to contain… pretty much what Adam already told him. A few short blurbs detailing the work the Citizens for Free Will do in the community. An offer to assist anyone with leaving the church if needed. “He mentioned… factions,” Charles says. “What are those? It sounds political.”

Kevin chortles. “A little… conceit on the part of the Citizens. They like to think they’re embroiled in some kind of cold war with the church. In reality, I let them exist here in town because I think they should.”

“Oh?” Charles asks.

“They take some of the community work off my hands.” Quietly, Kevin adds, “Maybe it’s okay if people have opinions. Lauren never understood that.”

“How do you mean?” Charles asks. Maybe now he’ll finally get to hear the whole story.

“Hmmm. You know what, I’ll just go see if Donnie needs anything.” Kevin turns and saunters up to the backdoor. Great.

He’s almost left the room when Charles adds, “Adam said you were dangerous somehow. That you… might do something hurtful?”

Kevin stops in the door for a second, considering this. “Yes… that sounds like something he would say.” And then he leaves.

Charles deflates.

He sits at the kitchen table wondering if the mysteries are ever going to stop, if he’s ever going to get an explanation for what’s going on in this town. He takes out his notebook again and turns the page. The research questions he now jots down are a bit different than the rest.

_What are the factions exactly?_ he writes.

_What is Strex?_

_How did Kevin get his scars (and obvious trauma)?_

_Why do the Citizens hate the church?_

_Why do people keep implying that Kevin will do something bad?_

_Where does Lauren Mallard fit in?_

How on earth he’s going to get that information, if asking Kevin outright is the last resort, Charles has no idea.

 

* * *

 

Meanwhile, Kevin has been planning a little outing.

He doesn’t like to leave the Bluffs, never has, never will, but some things necessitate it. Acquiring information is one such example. Certain information is not always easy to come by in the Bluffs; the wifi is spotty at best and due to all the mess surrounding the Mudstone Abyss – which is complete by now – they still don’t have a library or the funds to build one. Kevin is slightly regretful of that now.

But he knows where there’s a library. And he’s not going to sit and wait until the humming specters, who have returned again, relinquish the town’s internet connection. So he goes out into the wastelands and he finds himself an old oak door.

As he scales the obsidian wall surrounding the Night Vale Municipal Dog Park from the nether side, he carries with him a hooded cloak that he wrested from a hooded figure (and he is quite content to never ever discuss what he found under the hood). He puts it on as soon as he’s within the city proper. To make absolutely sure he won’t be recognized, he pulls a scarf up over his mouth. He’s still persona non grata in Night Vale, and he doesn’t want to incur the wrath of his double. Not that Kevin isn’t confident he could take Cecil in a fight, but it’s really so unnecessary. A town needs its Voice. There would probably, one way or the other, be dire consequences for radio-host-on-radio-host-crime.

Besides, he can’t do that to Carlos.

Kevin automatically attempts to cast his sight out into the adjoining streets, only to find that of course he can’t. Outside of the Bluffs, his sight is downgraded to normal human sight. It’s such a hassle. And it grates, like a phantom limb. Besides, he can’t check up on what Charles and Donovan are up to, the way he sometimes does at home. There are so many things that can happen to an unsupervised five-year-old.

Better make this quick, then, so he can return.

He takes the hooded cloak off when he arrives at the heavily barricaded front entrance to the library. A small crack in the barricades allows him to slip inside.

He is ambushed at the help desk by two librarians. He decorates the help desk with one of them, to show the other that he’s not to be trifled with.

“I need your help finding some books,” he says. The creature groans and gibbers menacingly, greenish, venomous-looking drool frothing from its yellowed fangs. Kevin presses the tip of his smile knife to the librarian’s throat, ready to adorn it with a second smile. His breath is coming fast from the previous little fight. It’s been a while since he had to kill anything larger than a mosquito; his reflexes might have slowed a little, but not so much as would make a difference. Strex has made it so that through some hidden mechanism he can’t begin to understand, the physical act of fighting (no, let’s say it outright, of _bloodshed)_ releases a surge of endorphins into his system, making him giddy with it. Kevin can’t use that now, and he shakes his head as if that would help clear it.

“I need all the books you have on parenting,” he says, panting only very slightly, “and make it quick, alright.”

He’s only just gotten into the little pile of books that’s laid out for him in the reading room when the door creaks open and a person, not a librarian, enters. Kevin marks his page and puts the book down, very careful not to make any sudden movements, when he sees who it is.

“I heard someone got into the library, so I came to do damage control—what the hell are _you_ doing here?”

Since Kevin last saw her, Tamika Flynn has grown from an early teen into a late teen. The additional few years have lent her severity, and she is now scarier than ever. Kevin has never made a secret out of the fact that this kid intimidates the hell out of him. (For a split-second, he wonders what Donovan will be like as a teenager. Kevin will be there to see that, which is a strange and thrilling thought.)

Nonetheless, he gives Tamika a small, closed-mouth version of his usual smile (Night Vale people can be so squeamish when it comes to smiling).

“Miz Flynn, I assure you I’m just here to read. If I was trying to invade Night Vale again, I wouldn’t have started here.”

“Why come here to read?” Tamika asks. “And that’s Councilwoman Flynn to you.”

“Hmmm. So we’ve both found ourselves in governing positions. And we don’t have a library yet in the Bluffs, so…”

Tamika gives him a glare of ill-disguised disdain. People with eyes in their heads are so easy to decipher. “What are you reading?” She lifts one of his books off the pile. “ _Parenthood and I, A Guide for First-Time Dads_? Why?”

Well, it surely doesn’t run to Tamika’s classical tastes, Kevin guesses. “I’ve come into a stepson lately. It’s a whole situation.”

“Really! Why not just google…?”

“We have a humming specter infestation,” Kevin attempts to explain. “They seem to be drinking our wifi at the moment.” It looks beyond bizarre to see these humming specters gathering at wifi hot spots, indulging in this… alien behavior. It has to be seen to be believed. “We’ve got our most attractive theologist on the case, but I’m not sure when it’s going to be fixed.”

“Sounds like a hassle.” For a moment they are almost commiserating, two citizens of their respective weird towns, veterans of dealing with a unique brand of weirdness. Then Tamika says, “But listen, if you want advice on how to be the best stepfather in the known dimensions, there’s one guy in town you have to hit up. My friend Janice’s dad.”

Kevin sucks in a breath. He hasn’t forgotten being grabbed by the lapels and tossed out of his native dimension. “I’d rather not. Things were said.” Kevin’s only now beginning to understand how grievously, awfully out of line he had been then. He imagines for a second someone offering to ‘fix’ Donovan, turn him into a Strex drone. His knuckles are white around the smile knife. It’s probably still a figment, a pale mirage of the rage Steve Carlsberg must have felt.

_Over my dead body._

“Yeah, I know,” Tamika Flynn says. “Cecil narrated it live on the radio. But it’s _Steve Carlsberg_ , man. He forgives _everybody_.”

Kevin considers this and decides, what the hell. This might as well happen. His life is already so weird.

When they walk past the help desk, Tamika calmly eyes the vanquished librarian. “Decent work with this one,” she says, giving it the air of a grudging admission.

“I want its teeth,” Kevin says, toying with his knife.

Tamika is unperturbed by this. The by now completely mummified hand of another librarian still dangles from a leather band around her neck. “I mean, knock yourself out?”

 

* * *

 

Steve Carlsberg almost shuts his door in Kevin’s face, but Kevin manages to sneak one boot into the gap, wedging it open. His boots are steel-capped and hard to argue away.

“You’re that man from the Desert Bluffs radio,” Steve Carlsberg says with as close as his friendly, jovial face can get to a scowl.

“Yes, and I’m deeply sorry for the things I said regarding your stepdaughter. I had no idea at the time how vile I was being. I do generally attempt to… not be that. And now I need your help.” There. Best to get it all out at once. Like ripping off a band-aid.

“Aw, man. Uh…” Steve fidgets in the doorway. “What, ah, what could you possibly need my help for?” His face suddenly lights up. “Are you… is this about the dotted lines and arrows in the-?”

Yeesh, not that again. He’s heard enough about dotted lines and arrows in the sky and similar nonsense from Adam’s wife, wherever she is now. “No. I want to know how one becomes a good stepdad.”

Steve Carlsberg is speechless for a second, his mouth even hanging slightly open. Tamika Flynn, who is watching this while seated on the porch of the Palmer-Carlsberg home, grins, seeming to enjoy the free show.

“Thing is, I’ve got this kid,” Kevin rushes to explain. “Not biologically, of course, he’s just there now. He’s five. It’s like he’s the son of me now? How do I work this?” (It comes so easy, calling Donovan his son, that in fact he only notices he did it later.)

(According to Charles, Donovan has already referred to Kevin as his dad once. He is now officially considered to be a father, not just Donnie’s father’s boyfriend. How could he ever have imagined that it would be possible to maintain any sort of distance to the kid? And, far more urgently, if he is to do this now, how does he do it properly? Kevin finds he doesn’t like the thought of being the reason Donnie will have to seek therapy later in life.)

“Oof. Wow. Big question,” Steve Carlsberg says. Kevin is beginning to wish he’d get to the point.

“Maybe let’s discuss it inside? Before my double turns up and tries to pick a fight with me?” Kevin attempts to communicate, through a subtle eyebrow raise, that it’s in everyone’s best interest that this not happen. Nobody wants undue damage to come to Cecil. Steve probably certainly appreciates having a brother-in-law with all his limbs attached.

Steve exchanges a glance with Tamika, who shrugs in a very resigned teen way. "The sooner you get this over with, the sooner I get to kick Desert Bluffs here out of town." She pats the slingshot tucked into her belt.

Kevin sniffs, hoping to project aloof disdain. "I don't fight with children."

Tamika grins. "Scared of getting beaten, coward?"

Kevin figures that for that remark, she deserves his full smile. To her credit, she doesn't even flinch. For a whole minute, they attempt to out-grin each other on the Palmer-Carlsberg porch, both sets of teeth bared.

“I guess this is happening now?” Steve Carlsberg says.

 

* * *

 

In the end, Kevin reflects as he slips back into what he now thinks of as his own dimension, he learned less and more than he thought he would from Steve. “It’s natural, I guess, to go in feeling a bit overwhelmed or lost,” he had said. “For me it’s… well, I don’t want to say trial and error, but I do try my best every day with Janice, and that’s all I can do. I give her all my love, and I try and teach her a little, and I hope what I say and do will turn out helpful to her in her life. I think a lot about all of it, and at the end of the day I hope that in a given situation I’m doing the right thing or the good thing. But of course I worry. Every parent worries.”

Kevin doesn’t like to worry. He likes things such as smiling and being happy. But it looks like life in a no-more-Strex-world is about more than that.

He definitely got the impression that either Steve Carlsberg is a bumbling incompetent and in denial about it, or he’s telling the truth and parenting presents challenges to everyone, and it’s normal to worry about setting a good example to your ch- to any children that might be around or that any boyfriends of yours might be having. At first, Kevin had been worrying that if he somehow messed something up in an interaction with Donovan, it would lead to Charles going away and searching for another boyfriend who would be better at it all. He hasn’t shared this concern in any depth with Charles, and Charles has done nothing to strengthen that impression, it’s… just one of these baseless fears. But there’s more to it now, anyway. Kevin wants to do this well for Donovan’s own sake. Because Donovan deserves to be looked after and cared for and

(loved)

Well.

Kevin pulls the old oak door shut behind him and watches it vanish. Back in his own desert, a short walk away from the town, he feels a surge of relief to be home. Immediately, he spreads his sight out, encompassing the whole of Desert Bluffs and every citizen within for just a short moment.

Ah, Desert Bluffs. It’s the best town there is.

How do people bear to live in Night Vale?

Sighing in momentary bliss at being reunited with his lovely hometown, Kevin takes a moment to soak in that feeling before making his way to Charles’s house.

Donovan is outside, making yet another chalk drawing in the driveway. When Kevin approaches, he looks up and waves a chalk-dust-smudged hand.

“Hi, daddy,” he says, and Kevin, hearing this in person now, is overcome by an odd feeling, like his heart is being siphoned through a straw for some ungodly reason.

“Hey,” he says weakly. “Hey, so- sunflower. What are you drawing?”

So he can think it, he can say it out of earshot, but can’t say it now. _We have to work on that,_ Kevin tells himself sternly.

 

* * *

 

When he arrives at the radio station the following morning, Kevin finds a note pinned to the front door. He tears it off and unfolds it. It’s composed solely of letters cut out of a newspaper.

“THE TRUTH WILL OUT,” the message proclaims. Kevin puts it in his tote bag with the rest of his junk.

“Hm. Not going to ruin my day,” he decides, aloud because there’s always something listening. He doesn’t bring it up during the broadcast, but he thinks about it, in an idle manner, as he’s smoking behind the radio station after work – Charles has told him he can’t smoke around Donovan or anywhere Donovan might smell it – when intern Vanessa materializes, sitting on the stairs by the back entrance across from him. Of course, this was their routine, their little friendly ritual in the hazy before-Strex-days, so it makes sense that she would turn up now.

Kevin is glad. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

Vanessa shrugs good-naturedly. “You’ve been busy.”

“Am I hallucinating you?” For the longest time, he hasn’t questioned Vanessa’s presence at all, while simultaneously being perfectly aware of her death, and the gruesome circumstances surrounding said death. It never seemed like a dichotomy. Whatever drugs Strex had him one were one hell of a drug.

Nowadays, he can be curious. He has that ability again.

“I’d say no, but…” Vanessa scratches her head. “I’d say that one way or the other, wouldn’t I?”

“But if you’re real, would that make you… a ghost? Why aren’t you… passing on? Not that I’m complaining.”

Vanessa grins. “Lesbians are immortal.”

“Neat.”

“I mean it. Lesbians aren’t legally allowed to die in this dimension or our home dimension. If one of us should get killed, conversion into a spirit is immediate.”

Kevin is content to let that stand. It’s a good story, which is what journalism is all about. Why bother examining it for truth? If Vanessa’s a hallucination, she is a benign one. He blows a cloud of smoke her way and she leans in and inhales greedily.

“Man, I missed this,” she says. The smoke vanishes from the air, but maybe that’s some kind of optical illusion.

“I did too,” Kevin admits. “Not smoking, I mean, but… you. Doing this here with you.” It often happens that a situation which resembles something from the past will call forth memories that Kevin couldn’t access during the Strex times. As of this moment, he recalls dozens of smoke breaks shared with Vanessa, cigarettes bummed off each other, whispered jokes about the old station management. They had been on their smoke break when they first met Lauren, who had made a comment about their unproductive pastime before walking past and entering negotiations with then-station management, hoping to coerce them into selling out. It had seemed so weird back then, funny-weird, when they hadn’t known her or Strexcorp yet. They had laughed about the strange lady with the fake peppy voice and the outlandish opinions on ‘productive work environments’ for a while, until Strex was suddenly everywhere and it gradually started to become less funny.

Vanessa had started out as just an intern, but had quickly grown into a true friend. Kevin doesn’t have a lot of friends here now, he reflects. He has Charles and Donovan, but they fall under family. The other people in town… respect him, ask him for things, mostly via the post-its pinned to the cow skull in the main square, but they keep their distance. Then there’s groups like the Citizens for Free Will and its offshoots, who respect him a lot less, but still enough to not attack him. Respect along with power and invulnerability is definitely something Kevin wanted when he set out to restart here, but also… he used to have friends in this town once. Well, not so much _this_ town. The other Desert Bluffs.

Maybe he’s hallucinating Vanessa because he misses having someone in his life who doesn’t worship him, isn’t afraid of him, isn’t five years old and doesn’t leave ominous messages composed of newspaper clippings at his workplace.

“It’s either Lauren or the Citizens,” he muses, turning the note over in his hands. “Or someone new at the scene wanting to spice things up.”

“What is?” Vanessa asks. Kevin shows her the note.

“Weird,” she says. “Might just be a prank.”

“True. It’s foreboding, but not necessarily hostile.” Maybe the past has made Kevin paranoid. Maybe properly so, but still.

“Someone’s coming,” Vanessa announces. Kevin turns to where she’s pointing and sees Charles enter the premises, Donovan at first tagging along behind him, but then bounding up to Kevin pretty adorably once he sees him.

“Hi, daddy!” he says. “I was just at daycare!”

“And now you’re here,” Kevin says, a bit nonplussed. He turns to Charles, who is approaching more calmly.

Vanessa next to him splutters. “ _Daddy?_ Whoa, when did _that_ happen?”

Donnie then looks directly at Vanessa and, suddenly shy again, huddles behind Kevin’s leg. “Daddy,” he whispers, “why’s the lady all ghosty?”

Kevin blinks. Twice. “Donovan… you can see Vanessa?”

Donnie nods. “Kind of? She’s all see-through.”

By now, Charles has caught up to the little group. “Yeah, we just got back from daycare. He kept asking to see the radio station, you know, wanting to see where you work… um, is something the matter?”

“Charles,” Kevin says slowly and carefully, “Can _you_ see Vanessa?”

“Can I see whom?”

“Vanessa.” Kevin gestures. “Standing right there.” Vanessa waves.

Charles looks a bit puzzled, though not nearly as puzzled as Kevin feels. “There’s no one here but us.”

“Yes, there _is_ ,” Donovan says. “There’s a lady ghost right there with big curly hair and a t-shirt with a radio on it.”

“Vanessa,” Kevin repeats by way of explanation. “She’s… an intern here.”

“Okay.” Charles takes this in and rallies surprisingly quickly. “ _Okay_ then. Donnie, say hi to Vanessa.”

“Hi, Vanessa.” Donovan waves up at her.

Vanessa smiles. “It’s nice to meet you, Donovan.”

“He’s my…” Oh well, it must out someday, Kevin thinks. “My stepson.” Yes. His stepson who works miracles and makes strange proclamations and can see Vanessa. Life throws weird shit at you sometimes.

“That’s so sweet. I had no idea.” Vanessa punches Kevin’s arm. Apart from a sudden cold sensation, he feels nothing. “Hey, congrats.”

“Yeah.” Kevin rubs his arm, more for the look of it. He turns back to Donovan. “So you want to see the station?”

Donovan nods eagerly.

While Donovan explores the sound booth with Vanessa (Kevin told him not to touch any buttons or the mason jar of teeth without asking first), Charles takes Kevin aside for a bit. “Have you heard about the church?” he asks.

Kevin hears about the church fairly frequently, seeing as it is his church, but nothing specific comes to mind. “What about it?”

Charles takes out his phone and pulls up a picture. “Looks like someone vandalized it.”

“Huh?” Kevin takes the phone from Charles. On the picture is a side view of the Temple of Joy. On the wall, someone has scrawled, in white paint, the words

COUNT YOUR MANY BLESSINGS

CONFESS YOUR MANY SINS

“Hmmm,” Kevin says. “Probably the Citizens, then. It’s the wrong kind of theatrics for Lauren.”

“But what does it mean?” Charles asks.

“How would I know?” Kevin says in a dismissive tone of voice, while within the privacy of his head echoes the _uh-oh_ of those guilty of keeping secrets and rather preferring them not to come to light.

They pass the church when they walk home to Kevin’s place, and inspect the new graffito in the flesh. Kevin calls up one of the assistant pastors to get someone to paint over it. That’s all he reckons he can do about the situation.

“It’s all connected somehow,” Charles mutters, craning his neck to look up at the painted words.

“What is?” Kevin asks.

“I’ve been doing some research while you were out of town yesterday,” Charles explains. “And I’m starting to feel like… there are things in this town that are being kept secret from me. And they all somehow connect into this one big secret. Do you ever get that feeling?”

“No,” Kevin says. “Not ever. What kind of research?”

“I just asked some people about some things.”

Kevin gives Charles a pointed side glance, because that’s not a very informative answer to give. Instead of prying, however, he just takes Charles’s hand. “Maybe your research stirred something up, babe.”

“Stirred what up?” Charles asks.

“It might just have disquieted some people.” Kevin doesn’t want to worry Charles or, Smiling God forbid, sound threatening. There are simply… some things he wishes Charles would leave alone. He settles for saying, “There are things that we as a community just want to… move on from. Quiet, like. Without much of a fuss.”

“I can’t not research,” Charles says. “I have to do my job.” For a moment, he looks very much like his Night Valian counterpart.

Kevin sighs.

 

* * *

 

Usually, Charles reflects, Kevin is a perfectly wonderful bedmate. He’s not so much thinking of the sex, which is of course also stellar, but all the rest of it. Most nights, Kevin sleeps like the dead, rarely budging even an inch from his position (they switch around being the little spoon) and in the morning, he wakes up abruptly and all at once at a fixed time and gets out of bed relatively quietly. Charles has had exes who were much more cumbersome to share a bed with, Donnie’s mom, for example, used to kick out in her sleep, resulting in bruised shins for Charles until he had been forced to insist on separate beds. Kevin doesn’t do that, he doesn’t hog the blanket or sprawl overly much. At least when they’re together, he doesn’t sleep with a knife nearby. All this more than makes up for Charles occasionally getting woken up abruptly in the middle of the night from Kevin’s nightmares.

And why does he have those, Charles wonders. Is it just the repetitive dream about the swooping birds that everyone in Desert Bluffs still occasionally has? Does it tie into what Charles is beginning to call, to himself within his mind, the larger underlying secret of the town?

Most of the time, Kevin doesn’t want to talk about the nightmares, the way he doesn’t talk about… a lot of stuff. He’s a secretive man. Tonight, though, something is seriously off. Kevin is staring at Charles as wild-eyed as a person with two black holes in his head instead of eyes can get.

“Are you for real?” he asks.

Charles pats himself down, still half-asleep. “’M tangible,” he murmurs.

“No, what I meant was… are you really who you claim to be?”

Charles sits up, suppressing a yawn. Unlike Kevin, he tends to wake up gradually, in bits and pieces. What Kevin’s saying right now is only slowly seeping through the haze. “Why would I be something else?”

Kevin’s voice carries an odd, charged sort of intensity when he says, “Well, you could be trying to get close to me. Biding your time until I let my guard down. And then…”

“And then what? Who or what would I be doing this for?” Strangely enough, as Charles wakes up fully, he finds he’s not mainly disappointed by Kevin accusing him of being some sort of covert operative. It’s that apparently he still hasn’t let his guard down. Does Kevin secretly mistrust him? Is it something he did? He only ever wants his boyfriend to feel safe with him.

“I don’t know. Lauren, maybe?” Kevin rakes both hands through his hair. “There are people who don’t like me.”

“But…”

“People who would wish to… impede me.”

“By planting a secret agent in your home? Honey, aren’t you being a bit paranoid?”

“I am appropriately paranoid for someone in my situation!” Kevin snaps.

Charles scratches his head, because it’s one in the morning, he has an 8am lecture tomorrow, and he must now find some way to convince his boyfriend that no mysterious enemy planted him here in this bed as a secret agent.

“Do you remember when we first went out?” he tries.

“Of course I do, how is that relevant?” Kevin asks.

“Well, remember the second time we went out? In the arcade? How I told you about Donovan and you were sitting across from me and your face did that thing where it froze completely? And then after that date you ignored me for more than a month?”

“Is this the time to discuss—”

“Yeah, it is. Because if I were some sort of operative with some kind of hidden agenda, why would I make things needlessly hard by introducing a little kid to the scenario? I was scared for a while that you would just never warm up to Donovan, and that you wouldn’t want to try, and that I’d never get to go out with you again. Not really a smart move if I were trying to seduce you, or something.”

“Well, you…” Kevin hesitates.

“Plus, there’s Donovan just… in general. I’ve been pretty up-front with you about how I used to handle dating. That I didn’t want to get involved with anyone who wouldn’t want to stick around at least somewhat permanently. That meant sacrificing a lot, all the casual stuff that might have been fun, but I couldn’t put Donovan through that. He needs stability, not a bunch of guys being in and out of here like a revolving door. Donnie’s pretty attached to you by now. Look me in the eye and tell me if you think I would have introduced you to my son at all if I had known from the beginning that it wouldn’t last.”

Kevin lets out a somewhat shaky breath.

“And you can’t possibly believe that Donnie is in on the act,” Charles continues. “You’ve seen him play pretend, I mean… I love Donovan more than my life, but between the two of us, let’s admit that five-year-olds are terrible actors.”

Kevin is silent for a moment, fiddling with the edge of the comforter. Eventually, he says, “I’m… being a bit silly, huh?”

“It’s okay.” Charles hopefully spreads his arms a little. “Hug?”

“I’d love to.” Kevin scoots over, nestling into his side. He lets out a small, embarrassed laugh. “You’ve been nothing but good to me and here I go accusing you of things.”

Charles shrugs, accidentally jostling Kevin a bit as he does so. It’s easy to forgive. Maybe not so easy to put aside completely. It would very much help if he knew where this bout of paranoia came from, how it all ties into the deeper, underlying, secret issue.

“I guess it’s just weird,” Kevin concludes. “Things… were less than ideal for me for a while? And now suddenly it’s all coming up Kevin. Something has to be wrong, you know? Or something’s coming. Life… doesn’t just turn around like that.”

_Less than ideal_ is already a strong negatively connotated phrase for Kevin, who is known to even avoid words such as ‘hate’ and ‘unhappy’ and the like, at least on the radio. That Kevin, whom Charles has come to know as one of the most positive, optimistic and cheery people he ever met, would have such thoughts at all is saddening.

“I still don’t know what exactly you went through,” Charles says, “but hey, maybe you deserve the good life now.”

Kevin laughs. He laughs a tad too long.

 

* * *

 

Charles stays up pondering this long after Kevin already went back to sleep, 8am lecture be damned. It’s beginning to frustrate him that no one will tell him anything in this town. Desert Bluffs was supposed to be the perfect place for him to live a peaceful, happy life, almost picture-perfect, sunny skies and friendly smiles and white picket fences. Now what he’s gotten are secrets and silences and some nameless dread lurking just underneath everyone’s smiles.

He started his research, while Kevin was out of town, with Josephine and the demons. He requested to see her old photographs again, maybe hear some stories. Maybe even the story of where Kevin’s eyes went. That hit a wall. Eager to reminisce one moment, as elderly ladies tend to be, she had clammed up the next. Charles had asked the assistant pastors at the church some of the questions in his notebook, only to very politely be shunted off without any answers. He’d even gone down to the rec center on Rapture Street hoping to interview some of the Citizens for Free Will. Adam Carlton had taken time out of his busy schedule to personally rebuff him.

“The church ought to clean up his own messes,” he had said. “It’s not my job, or any of my people’s job.”

“Weird way to talk about your brother,” Charles had said.

“So his _eminence_ told you that at least, huh?” Adam had replied, the eminence dripping with vitriol.

“Wow,” Charles had said, hoping to get Adam to talk. “What did he _do_ to incur all this hatred?”

Adam had looked very tired for a moment, scraping a finger through the scruff along his jaw. Adam’s story is just another one that Charles doesn’t know, but for a moment he had felt a sharp pang of pity for this tired, unshaved man. “Look, don’t get me wrong,” Adam had said. “I don’t hate my brother. I miss my brother every day. He was a good man. A gentle man, a brave man. My best friend. When I first came out, said I wanted to transition, he was the only one who supported me through it all. Yeah, damn, I miss him. Little Kev. Heard he was among the last ones to fall, maybe even the last one. He fought hard. But they took the old station and they _killed him_. That… thing they put in his place, who runs the church now, I don’t know what that is exactly, but it’s not my brother.”

By that point, Charles had been sitting with his mouth open. _What is happening?_ he’d asked himself. _Is this guy delusional?_

“My brother was gentle,” Adam had repeated, nostalgia softening the hard lines of his face for a moment. “A pacifist. Squeamish around bugs. Swooned at the sight of blood. Hah, yeah, hard to imagine now, huh? Didn’t even smile all that much. He sure wasn’t some grinning, eyeless monster. My brother’s dead, and that _revenant_ running around acting like everything’s okay now is an insult to his memory.”

And then Charles had gotten out of his seat, extremely confused but also aflame with protective instinct. For a moment it had seemed like they would fistfight right there over Kevin’s honor, like in a dime novel, with the subject of the quarrel none the wiser. “I don’t appreciate you talking about my boyfriend in that way.”

“You’ll see soon enough,” Adam Carlton had replied, not moved in the slightest. “You’ll see.”

Charles had been politely but very firmly shown the door then. It rankled. It still rankles. He has officially exhausted all his sources now, and his notebook is still mostly empty.

He will have to ask directly, won’t he?

 

* * *

 

“I need to ask you a question,” Charles says.

“Mmm,” is all that Kevin can think to reply. He’s squinting into a mirror, lips pursed in concentration as he applies mascara to his lashes.

“Kevin, what is Strex?”

Kevin’s hand slips.

“Oh! Ah. Right in the socket!” Kevin’s lids clamp shut protectively, but he can hear Charles rushing over to fuss over him. He’s used to pain to a degree at which accidentally jamming a mascara wand right into his eye socket can easily be shrugged off. But he lets Charles make all his concerned noises and dab at his face with a tissue hoping that over all this flurry of activity, Charles will forget his initial question.

No such luck, it turns out.

So, this is it. This is the moment.

It has been a long time coming.

“I just hear everyone mentioning something called Strex all the time,” Charles explains, “just casually in conversation, and it feels like this town-wide joke that I’m not in on.” The way Charles says it, he seems to be feeling a lot more about this than simply put out at not getting an inside joke. Kevin knows that Charles has been asking questions, and not really getting answers, for a while now. Of course he does. He is the one who has been taking care that no answers were provided. Not that he ever told anyone to keep things from Charles or lie to him. People seem to have kept quiet on their own, out of consideration for Kevin, or for their own personal reasons.

But what can he do now that Charles is asking the question to his face? He can’t keep quiet any longer. Charles, in a way, is owed this. He has been patient, respecting Kevin’s privacy, but he ought to know just who and what he’s in a relationship with.

“It’s not,” Kevin says, “a joke. I’m sorry if we’re making you feel like an outsider here, it’s just that… it’s a long story. I’ll cancel my meeting with the prayer circle, and then we’ll sit down for this one.”

 

* * *

 

Kevin texts the prayer group, they sit, and Charles expects Kevin to talk now, but no story is forthcoming. “Okay so…?” Charles prompts gently. “What’s the deal? What is this Strex? A place? A name of a person?”

“It’s the name of a corporation.” Kevin’s looking down at his hands now, folded on the tabletop. He’s not looking at Charles. “Strexcorp Synernists Incorporated. That’s what they were called. They used to employ most everybody in this town.” Kevin takes a deep breath, as if to say ‘let’s get into this’. “They started out as this fairly small local business…”

Ten minutes into the story, Charles is gripping the edge of the table so tightly that the wood emits a mournful creak. What Kevin is describing, in the same tone of voice in which he announces the community calendar on the radio…

Some things about Kevin certainly add up now. The scars, the smiling thing, that knife. A great deal of mannerisms. All the underhanded enmity with Lauren. Speaking of Lauren, Charles will certainly not be as friendly to her as he has been.

“Why is Lauren still alive?” he asks.

“Well, she proved plenty resilient out in the desert,” Kevin says brightly, “so she didn’t…”

“No. Babe? No. What I mean is… she came here, this is your town now. You have that knife. _Why_ is Lauren still _alive?”_

“The smile knife has a ceremonial purpose. I would not use it on Lauren.” Kevin turns his nose up at the very thought. Then he sighs. “Strex had me kill many people. Many… many people. And I was happy to do it! Happy, in fact, to do anything they’d ask. My job, among other things, was to cull the lazy and the unproductive… the defiant… and whoever couldn’t be made to function properly… a final fuck you, I think, to whatever person I was before. Maybe… maybe I didn’t want to give this to her. Maybe I just… didn’t need to murder anyone else.”

So there’s what it is. ‘Murder’ is such a huge word. It spreads between them, fills up the entire room. It sits brightly on Kevin’s lips. Charles feels how Kevin looks at him, not even trying to hide the terrible uncertainty in him. This once. Has that been there since the beginning? The fear that if Charles knew this, he would leave?

“Babe… is it too late to murder Lauren?”

 

* * *

 

This, usually, if it were some sort of narrative, would be an excellent moment to cut away. The punchline delivered, the tension dissipated. Kevin does laugh at Charles’s joke, a strange, tittering laugh, and then he says he has no interest at the moment in doing anything to Lauren, he just wants to move on. But since this is Charles’s real life, the scene doesn’t dissolve now to mercifully reassemble at some point where everything has been cleared up offscreen. There is no way for Charles to switch his life off and tune back in later. So he gets to deal with the awkward moments afterwards.

After Kevin has laid bare his past as a corporate murder drone, they sit on the couch in Charles’s living room, Charles puts an arm around Kevin and reassures him rather broadly that everything is okay. Looking at the state of the world in general, this of course is an outrageous lie. Kevin doesn’t comment, and Charles can see that his heart isn’t in it.

Telling the whole story of how Strexcorp took over Desert Bluffs has taken a while, and it is now evening. Kevin feigns (obviously) a headache and excuses himself from having dinner with Charles and Donovan, as originally planned after the prayer circle meeting. Charles watches him leave for his own home and feels bad about it.

He keeps feeling bad about it as he makes dinner, and then as he eats dinner, and Donovan asks where Kevin is. It occurs to Charles how quickly they established a routine of eating together. _I made a life with someone who has killed, a lot._ Nope, doesn’t work _. I made a life with my sweet boyfriend, who’s probably all by himself now worrying that I can’t handle this and will leave him._ Yeah, that’s more like it. Charles thinks long and hard about what he can and cannot handle, then he puts Donovan to bed and drives himself to Kevin’s house. He still has that house key, so he simply lets himself in.

He finds Kevin in the process of pouring himself a glass of wine. He looks… troubled, forlorn, and Charles feels his heart clench.

When Kevin notices someone in the room with him, the first thing he does is go for his smile knife, completely out of reflex. He lowers his hand when he sees who it is.

“Charles,” he says. “You’re… here.”

Charles nods. “Yeah.”

“Was there… something you wanted?”

“To get you out of your own head, yeah.” Charles crosses the room, standing directly in front of Kevin. “You’re trying to give me space with this and I appreciate it, but I don’t think any of us should be alone tonight.”

Kevin tops up his glass. Charles sneaks a stealthy glance at the bottle. Oh, well. It’s still mostly full. It looks to be his second drink at most.

“I thought you might be wanting to reconsider…”

“I’m not reconsidering _shit_.” Gently, but firmly, Charles takes the glass from Kevin’s hand and puts it aside. “And let’s not do _this_ , my sweet. We’re handling this like adults.”

Kevin looks off to the side. What with his eye situation, this shows in an abrupt little jerk of his chin. “Always so reasonable about these things.”

“Comes with being a dad.”

Kevin chuckles.

“Listen,” Charles says, “When we started this whole thing, you told me that… you were new to this, but you would try for me. You know? That impressed me. I want to do the same for you.”

“This is different,” Kevin argues.

“The sentiment’s the same,” Charles decides. “You’ve done a lot to support me when I got here. Now I want to support you.”

Kevin ducks his head. “You’ve already done a lot… more than you can know.”

Charles honestly doesn’t know what he did. But he smiles reassuringly and caresses Kevin’s cheek. “Whatever it was I did, I’d like to keep on doing it.”

Kevin huffs and bats him lightly across the chest. “How can you just not mind?” he asks. “I told you I’m not… that is to say, I’m…”

“What? You’re dangerous and murderous and awe-inspiring? You’re tough and scary and sexy?”

“Charles!”

“So what? I know you won’t harm me or Donnie. I don’t care about the rest.”

Kevin flings his arms around Charles, and suddenly he’s being squeezed very tightly. “You’re so _weird_ ,” Kevin says, muffled, into his chest.

 

* * *

 

A while later, when Kevin’s already gone to sleep, Charles sits beside him on the bed and thinks.

Today was about Kevin telling the story, and Charles hearing it. The evening was about reassuring Kevin that despite it all, Charles is still with him. That took priority. And it’s true, he is, but he hasn’t taken a moment to ponder for himself what it all means, to deal with it emotionally, and it’s necessary that he does so.

He looks at Kevin beside him on the bed, sleeping. Sometimes he smiles even in his sleep, but not tonight. Charles observes his face, the relaxed line of his mouth a stark contrast to the scars, dark lashes fanning gently out onto his cheeks, the soft curve of his eyelids sloping over nothing. _This is a killer,_ Charles thinks. The information passes through his mind without impacting anything, and Kevin still looks the same.

It's not that Charles can’t imagine Kevin ever killing people. He can. Something in those black eyes, in those too-sharp teeth, in his stride and demeanor always whispered of danger. But the whisper was never directed at Charles. To him, Kevin hasn’t ever been anything but welcoming. Kevin’s soft-spoken and not exactly of intimidating build, he’s neither tall nor short, neither thin nor fat, he’s not hypermasculine and Charles likes that about him, but there was never any denying that he is powerful, in a not entirely mundane way. Charles has occasionally felt an inclination to take care of Kevin, to get him to slow down, relax, be pampered a little. But Charles has also often felt that there was no force on earth could move Kevin, that he, Charles, an academic and a dad who has never been in a fight, could duck behind Kevin and be safe in the event of any threat.

Charles has also known, or at least surmised, that all this didn’t come from nothing, that something was going on with Kevin’s past that he never once spoke about until earlier today, and likely something sinister. There have been hints. Then the scars, the knife that Kevin always carries, the seemingly random odd behaviors. Kevin’s insistence that there were things in his past that he wouldn’t discuss. The cryptic warnings from the townspeople: Kevin is dangerous, Kevin might hurt you. All very cloak-and-dagger, very Retired Assassin in the style. _Brainwashed into it_ is honestly the best Charles could have hoped for.

He remembers what Kevin said the day they met each other: “You looked straight into me, and saw that I was the same as you.” Well, now he merely sees a little clearer, and it changes nothing.

Should it? He’s not sure.

He lightly grasps one of Kevin’s hands, turning it palm up on the pillow, toying idly with his fingers. Kevin has nice hands, soft, manicured, the nails neatly filed. Charles can imagine blood under his nails, can imagine these hands wielding that knife to further the destruction of other people. Why did he have to kill? About that, Kevin had still been cagey. It was simply the done thing, he said. They told him to. They made him. It never occurred to him not to. A lot of it was for his own survival. A lot of it was because it felt good. Something in the drugs they put him under, he said, something in the way they changed him. Hormones and whatnot, and a complex trigger system, _I don’t know, Charles, I’m no scientist. It felt good, that’s all._

Charles has heard this and understood this and he still doesn’t feel different. In a way, it’s a confirmation of something he already vaguely suspected. At least, as Kevin has assured him, it is firmly in the past.

Be that as it may, touching Kevin now was a mistake. He’s a rather light sleeper, and he comes awake almost immediately.

“Charles?” he whispers.

“Hi there.”

Kevin looks up into the face of Charles, who has quite obviously not been sleeping, and concludes, “Having second thoughts, hmm?”

“Never,” Charles assures him.

“And yet…?”

“No. If anything, I’m surprised by how little this changes for me.”

Kevin looks astonished, and so Charles kisses him. “All I feel is relief. That it’s all out in the open now.”

“And that’s… it?” Kevin prods.

“Well, I’m also… I don’t know. Just angry, I guess.”

Kevin’s mouth twists into a sad, apologetic pout. “I should have told you earlier. But I… there was a lot there, and I didn’t know how—”

“I’m not mad at _you_ , sweetheart. I’m angry that they did that to you, that there are people out there with such disregard for human life that would do that to a person.”

“Everyone in the Bluffs has been through that,” Kevin says. “It’s not just me.”

“To a town, then.” Charles takes a deep breath. “Kevin,” he says, “I think I’m ready to hear it all now.” He lifts the covers, takes in the beautiful picture that is his boyfriend. He touches a finger to the corner of Kevin’s mouth, where the scar tissue begins. “Should we start here?”

Kevin’s mouth twitches into an almost-smile. “Funny that you’d want to start with this one,” he says, “I don’t remember how I got it.”

“You… don’t? At all?”

“Nope. I’m better at remembering stuff these days, and I have an explanation for… most of these.” He makes a swiping gesture at himself. “But not the smile. I try sometimes but it won’t let me access the memory. Just… blankness.”

“Huh.” The implication that it’s likely to be traumatic on such a scale that Kevin’s totally suppressing it is not lost on Charles. He presses two quick kisses to both of the scars, and doesn’t comment further.

Undeterred, Kevin takes Charles’s hand and guides it downwards to his chest, where there are a couple of long, thin scars, silvery and mostly healed, barely visible at all. “These I do recall. Strex was very into public disciplinary whippings for a while for some reason? And not just your back. All over.”

“Jeez. What did you do?”

“I tried to spit at Lauren when she gave me an order,” Kevin says almost smugly. “There were times early on when my conditioning… didn’t quite take. I was a handful.” He chuckles.

From there, they move on to his arms. Here there are short, irregular scars, like from random slashes with a knife, and also an odd, discolored patch, lighter than the skin around it and a bit different in texture, that looks like a very old and very faded burn.

“Yes, well. Most of that is from when they took the radio station. The fractures all healed and the bruises faded, but some of them had knives. It was just me there in the end. Idiotic really, to think that putting myself in between them and the station like that would stop them. But I guess I had my principles.” Kevin shakes his head, as if wanting to berate his past self for being so stupidly idealistic. “That was the day my eyes also were taken.”

Charles still wonders how Kevin isn’t blind. Kevin likely doesn’t know this either.

He touches the burn scar. “What is this?”

Kevin grimaces. “Nothing to do with Strex. That was my dad. Let’s move on.”

He grabs Charles’s hand again and puts it on his other arm, but not before Charles can kiss the burn, and everything else there is. In the crook of his elbow there is clearly a bite mark, from a set of human teeth. Human but sharp enough to permanently scar.

“That one?”

“Self-inflicted. One time, they weren’t satisfied with our productive output, so until we would work hard enough to cover the costs of town-wide meal distributions, they put us all on food rationing. We were on one meal a day. About a month into this, I was so crazed with hunger that I attempted to consume my own flesh. Haha, crazy, right? I mean, who does that?” Kevin laughs. Charles feels suddenly sick. He doesn’t want to put his lips to the bite mark, not even to continue this little impromptu ritual. It’s not that he’s disgusted by this part of Kevin’s body, it just feels… disrespectful, to put his mouth there.

“I would also, after work, go out into the wastelands and catch lizards and such,” Kevin continues. “As a snack, you know. Find one, snap the neck, consume the edible parts and blood and such, keep the bones. Or crack them for the marrow. Not much meat on your average lizard.”

Charles puts a hand on his mouth, hoping to quell the nausea. It won’t quite help.

“But better than nothing, right? A lot of people with more manual-labor-intensive jobs died during the rationing. Just keeled over, haha. People dropped nearly every day in the distribution plant. Some say the bodies were—Charles, are you alright, honey?”

Charles weakly waves his free hand and tries to breathe calmly. “Go on.”

Kevin reaches up to touch Charles’s face, run a hand through his hair. “Hey. Easy. We don’t have to do them all tonight.”

Charles wants to argue that it’s the least he can do. What he ends up saying is just, “Why are _you_ comforting _me?”_

Kevin chuckles lightly, and keeps petting Charles’s hair. “I don’t need to be comforted right now,” he says. His voice is soft in the semi-darkness. “I’ve experienced it, so simply retelling it to you while we’re here and safe won’t hurt me now. I know I’m not there, and I’m not going back there again, well, so I hope. All I need is to know that you won’t recoil from me, now that you know I’ve brutalized so many, many people.”

“I won’t.” Now it’s Charles’s turn to throw his arms around Kevin and squeeze him tightly. “I won’t, I swear, and if anyone ever tries this shit again, I will…”

“You will do what? Write them a pointed e-mail? Have a serious discussion with them about their academic future? Good god, you won’t _expel_ them, will you?” Kevin laughs quietly. “If there’s knife-work, leave it to me, honey.”

Charles huffs. Sure, he’s deeply a civilian. But everyone instinctually longs to protect their loved ones, don’t they? “I know you can handle yourself. I just… want you to be safe.”

With another fond chuckle, Kevin detaches himself from the hug. Growing serious again, he says, “Charles, to be honest, in the unlikely event that this does happen again, what I want you to do is get Donovan and then get out of town. And never once look back. Okay?”

“What? You can’t mean… I wouldn’t…”

“You have to. Don’t try to help me or be a hero. Just leave with Donnie and don’t come back. Will you do that for me? Please. You know… a great many people didn’t survive the first few years of Strex. The working conditions, the punishments, the pressure… many just fainted in the middle of their work and didn’t get up again. Many were culled by HR or me. I didn’t care then that they died, only that I was alive and doing better, being stronger, being a better employee, but I remember who they used to be now. I don’t want to snap out of it again and remember you or Donovan that way. I don’t want Donnie to grow up in a Strex Employment Training Facility. Do you see?”

Charles gulps, and nods. He may start crying yet. “Yeah.”

“Charles…” Kevin’s void-eyes are wide and beseeching. “Promise me?”


	5. Of Theology, Ethics and Other Various Sundries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you thought the Strex Reveal was the high point of this fic? ...well maybe it will turn out to have been, but i've got more things cooking
> 
> taking It Devours into accord, i've seen a couple theories regarding the timeline, namely that kevin was pushed through the old oak door by steve carlsberg, wrote the book of devouring, came back to night vale at an unspecified later point and left it with them. my take is a little different: i've always reckoned that kevin found an old oak door during his time with strex, went through, wrote the book of devouring, returned to desert bluffs, founded the church and was then pushed through the old oak door again by steve. i can probably back this up if i think hard enough but for now, take this.
> 
> again i loved everyone's feedback on this! as always, kudos and comments are appreciated!

They wake up in the morning, look at each other and immediately, simultaneously remember that they left Donovan at Charles’s place. Thus commences hectic dressing and bolting for the car. Maybe they can make it there before Donnie wakes up.

 

* * *

 

Now that the truth is all out in the open, something changes.

Charles has come to know Kevin as reserved about his past life. Now it’s like a tiny valve has opened through which stories sometimes will pour out. This happens under all sorts of different circumstances.

It first begins only two days later, when, as Charles gets home from work, he finds Kevin in his flower garden, lying spread-eagled on his back and smiling up into the sky, completely motionless. The sprinkler is on, misting the scenery with a soft spray of water. The soil is moistening and turning into mud and Kevin doesn’t seem to mind it getting onto his sundress and his bare limbs. Water droplets catch in his hair and on his lashes, and he doesn’t move an inch, the orange irises around him bobbing softly in the light breeze.

Charles, worried, of course hastens over. “Kevin! Are you alright?”

Kevin raises a hand. “Charles. Hi. Be calmed.” He sounds so tranquil, just a hint of his radio voice sneaking into his tone, that Charles can’t help but calm down.

“What’s happening?” he asks.

“I have been prone on the ground for the past thirty minutes,” Kevin replies.

_“Why?”_

Kevin closes his eyes, the picture of bliss. “Because I could. Because no one could keep me from it.”

“Oh,” Charles says.

“Because no one was there to come poke me with a stick and demand I get back to work. No one’s going to administer electric shocks for me just lying here. It’s funny, there is work I could be doing up in the office, but am I doing it? No.” He giggles. “What a concept!”

“You’re making a mess,” Charles can’t help but say. He rather wishes, almost immediately, that he hadn’t said it, but this is the dad in him talking, the person who minds toppled cocoa mugs and unfortunate spaghetti sauce incidents and, yes, mud.

Kevin seems unperturbed by this. “I don’t care,” he says. “I felt like laying down with the soil, and this I’m doing. Hey, you should try it too.” He tries to tug Charles down beside him, but Charles simply squats next to him and grabs his hand.

“No, thanks, my blazer’s new, I’ll have to pass on the soil.” Ignoring the ‘psh’ sound Kevin makes in reply to this, Charles says, “But you just… keep on doing this, if that’s what you feel you need to be doing.”

Kevin flicks a mud-stained finger at him. “I’ll be doing this regardless of you saying I should.” He bats his eyelids again, and Charles bends down to kiss a droplet of water off of his lashes.

“Of course,” he says softly. “Of course.”

 

* * *

 

“Dessert?” Charles asks, looking over the menu.

They’re back at Vermillion, Desert Bluffs’ fanciest restaurant, where they had their first dinner date, just the two of them. Usually, Charles prefers to have the little family together for dinner, but today, just this once, they’ve left Donnie at Grandma Josephine’s. Tonight is special. Not that there’s a special occasion – their anniversary is far off yet. It’s a little arrangement they have made: once a month at the very least, they find a babysitter and have one-on-one time for a night. Maybe after dinner they’ll go dancing, or have a drink or two at one of the new bars, and eventually they’ll make their way home, and then…

“Maybe something small,” Kevin says. “I need to watch my figure.”

Charles chortles, but pauses when he observes how Kevin’s smile momentarily morphs into a pout. “You’re serious.”

Kevin nods. “I don’t want to subject any of us to relationship weight.”

“There’s nothing wrong with your weight.”

“Yet!” Kevin waves a hand impatiently. “It’s easy to get lost in the sensation of how nice it is to just eat things that aren’t flavorless gruel, but I mustn’t overdo it. Plus I don’t have time for working out or any of that sort of thing. So, sometimes, I’ll abstain.”

Charles cocks his head. “You lost me at flavorless gruel.”

“Oh! Of course, you wouldn’t know that.” Kevin’s posture straightens a bit, as it does when he’s about to tell a story. It’s cute, Charles thinks, like he’s so excited to get into it.

“Well, here’s the thing. Back in the day, all Strex employees would subsist on something called Strexmeals™. They were easy and cost-efficient to produce and contained all the nutrients your average adult could ever need. The downside to this was that it was a kind of gray sludge that tasted like nothing in particular…”

“How did you do the… the trademark thing like that with your mouth?”

Kevin shrugs. “Just a nifty little trick I learned in the Strex days. Where was I? Ah, yes. Gray sludge. There was normal food, of course…”

Charles stealthily exhales in relief.

“…but no one outside of management could feasibly afford that.”

Oh.

“It was just easier to live on Strexmeals™. Sometimes, management would hand out donuts to the staff, or smoothies, or some candy, that was a nice little treat, a reward for increased productivity. There was this cupcake bakery that they kept open, one of the last vestiges of the old Desert Bluffs, subsidized of course by Strexcorp. Lauren would go there sometimes to buy a cupcake. Of course that meant they had a huge surplus of produce, which at the end of the day unfortunately they had to throw out. Then a squadron of Strex drones would come and pour bleach all over their dumpsters so that people wouldn’t sift through the trash, you know, to steal food? Which was of course a crime, and just terribly uncouth behavior.”

Charles nods faintly.

“But every morning on my way to work, I would stop there a second and breathe in the scent of the baked goods, and I would feel just that little bit more motivated to increase my productivity for the month, so that maybe I could save up to afford a thing of cupcakes. And I would take a minute to, well, to window-shop I suppose, and I would smile and smile and smile through the hunger pangs. And I observed many others doing the same! What a time that was.”

Kevin hasn’t lost the smile for even a second through all that. Charles swallows uncomfortably around the lump in his throat. “And did you ever?”

“Did I what?”

“Buy a thing of cupcakes.”

Kevin considers this. “Well, what do you know, I don’t recall. Usually by the end of the month, if I had any Strexpoints left over, it was a toss-up between that and some other luxury item. Like a nice new shirt, or my allergy medication…”

“Your… allergy…”

“Yeah. That was deemed nonessential to productivity, and therefore unfortunately not covered by my Strex Insurance™. Haha, yikes, right?”

“Yikes,” Charles repeats. He snaps his dessert menu shut and gestures to the waiter. “We’re ready to order now,” he says. “I’ll have the tiramisu, and for my boyfriend… look, why don’t you just bring out the largest, sweetest, most buttercream-covered item that you have. And make it two of that.”

 

* * *

 

And then there’s the day Charles comes home to voices from the living room, Kevin saying something and Donovan giggling. It makes him smile as he goes to investigate.

They are both seated on the couch. Kevin is reading to Donovan from a picture book entitled, apparently, ‘Smiley the Centipede Accidentally Swallows the Earth’. They are looking at the pictures together.

Charles stays standing in the doorway grinning like a besotted idiot as he listens to Kevin doing different voices for all the characters. The comically deep and booming one he does for the Smiling God seems almost a bit irreverent, to Charles as a theologist. (He has often observed a slight touch of irreverence in Kevin regarding his religion, which has seemed odd at times, but well, Charles guesses if you create your own religion, you get to joke about it all you want.) It certainly makes Donovan pitch over backwards into the sofa cushions in a fit of giggles.

They finish the book and Charles makes his presence known. The two of them only just now notice him, so wrapped up were they in the story and each other’s company.

“How are my two favorite boys doing, hmm?” Charles goes over to the couch and is hit by an immediate double assault. Donovan enthusiastically hugs his legs, while Kevin, equally enthusiastically, hugs a little higher up. Charles liberally dispenses kisses in return.

“Hi, Donnie. Hi, hon.”

“Hello, Charles.”

“Daddy read me a story!”

“Yeah, I caught that.” Charles looks fondly from Donovan to Kevin. It’s a perfect little moment.

“Can I watch the Ninja Turtles before dinner?” Donovan asks. Charles wants a minute alone with Kevin anyway, so he leaves Donnie to become enraptured in a TV show about four perfectly ordinary but very disgruntled snapping turtles with katanas strapped to their shells let loose in a busy urban area. Charles nods at Kevin to follow him to the library.

After the not-quite-kid-friendly greeting makeout session against a bookshelf, Charles says, “Thanks for babysitting, honey.”

Kevin scoffs. “Oh, it’s not babysitting.”

“Hmm?” Charles says, intrigued by what he could mean by that, but more intrigued by how very kissable Kevin is looking leaning on the bookshelf like that.

But then Kevin suddenly is looking a little fidgety. He avoids Charles’s eyes when he says, much quieter, “It’s… not babysitting when it’s your own kid. That’s just… being a dad… so I hear.”

Charles doesn’t question where Kevin heard this, he just envelopes him in a crushing hug, lifting his feet about an inch off the ground in the process. “You’re so… I love you. For saying that, I love you.”

“Just the truth,” Kevin murmurs and ducks his head to hide his face in the fabric of Charles’s shirt, a surefire tell, Charles has learned, that he’s blushing.

“You’re so cute.” Charles sets Kevin down. “Can we talk for a minute?”

“About what?” Kevin asks, leaning against the shelf again. A hundred texts of theory on divinity and worship huddle closer to bask in the radiant presence of the living, breathing practice. (The books don’t actually move, but it’s a nice mental image to Charles.) From the get-go, Kevin has embodied everything Charles dedicated his life to studying and understanding. He shivers with pleasure as he imagines the essays he will write on his beautiful boyfriend’s personal religion. Sniffing out the town’s dark secret has distracted him from his actual studies for a while but now he can’t wait to get back into it. He will get to collaborate with Kevin here on something splendid, something completely unique, something he’s never had the chance to do before. Every paper will be a love declaration.

But back to the point for now. “I’m glad you’re reading to Donnie,” Charles says. “Being read to is good for a kid. But maybe we should just make sure we’re on the same page about…”

“About?”

“Donnie’s, uh… religious education.” Honestly, Charles thinks now, he’s surprised this didn’t come up earlier.

“Oh! Hm,” Kevin says. Then he just seems to… wait for Charles to go on.

“As a theologist,” Charles begins, “I study religion. All religion. You know this. I do so without prejudice, but also without… favorable bias.”

Kevin nods. “I do know this.”

“And I’m aware the Smiling God is… well, it’s real here. It’s important to your life and this community.”

Kevin points a finger. “I feel a ‘but’ coming on.”

“Yeah… look, I’m fine with you reading religious books to Donnie. I’m fine with him going to the church classes and whatnot and, and learning about the Smiling God. But I… I stand outside of that, you know? I believe in the Smiling God, but I don’t necessarily worship It.”

In a remarkable show of personal growth, Kevin says, “You don’t need to join the Congregation to live here or to be with me. Neither does Donovan.”

Charles tries to hide how relieved he feels. It’s not that he was expecting an argument, he just… thought it possible that one might take place. “I’m not saying Donnie shouldn’t join the Congregation. If he wants to when he’s older, I’m all for that. But I think it should be up to him.”

“Of course. Of course. But we don’t know what will happen,” Kevin cautions.

“True. Maybe something will happen.” Donnie hasn’t worked any other miracles since the first time, and apart from some little weird incidents, he has been acting like any other normal child. But Charles is keeping his eyes peeled, and he knows Kevin is doing the same. “But if nothing else happens, well… maybe he’ll choose to stay in the Congregation when he’s older. Maybe he’ll want another religion, or no religion. Maybe as he grows up he’ll want to distance himself a little bit, find his own path… and then he’ll return to the Smiling God later in life, or never. I want these to be choices that my son can make.”

“I understand that.” Kevin isn’t smiling now, but it’s not a bad kind of not-smiling. It’s the kind that means that Kevin is taking this seriously, that’s all. “I’m… my brother and I are Jewish on our mother’s side, but dad wanted to raise us Arboreal,” he explains. “It got him an agnostic atheist and, well, me. I get changing your mind.”

“So if in a few years Donovan comes up to us and says, guys, I think I’m an atheist? Or a catholic or a Huntokar-worshipper or whatever? You’ll be just fine with that?”

“Well, I’ll probably feel some inner conflict.” Kevin quirks a brow. “What did you think I’d do, disown him? Have him thrown into the Mudstone Abyss for heresy?”

Charles slumps his shoulders. “You’ll never let me live that down, will you?”

“I’ve been made to be many things,” Kevin proclaims, ignoring that, “but I’m not a barbarian. Well. Not _now_.”

“I just… I know what the Smiling God means to you.”

Kevin chuckles. “Do you?”

It strikes Charles as a weird thing to say, the way Kevin says it. “Well, I know your belief in the Smiling God is… important to you. And, um… and fervent.”

“Fervent?” Kevin repeats. There is a laugh hidden somewhere in his tone.

“Like… you believe in it more than anyone else.”

“Do I?” Kevin asks, his inflection unchanged. He is grinning by now, and this one clearly signifies wry amusement. He’s winding Charles up, but he’s doing it in a way that Charles can’t even comprehend.

“I mean, I’ve read almost all the religious texts you wrote,” he says. “That’s all your beliefs, right?”

Kevin puts a hand on his chest. “ _My_ beliefs?” His grin is threatening to rip his long-scarred-over cheeks back apart. His sharp, white teeth are out in full, glorious force. “Oh, Charles. Not seeing the desert for the dunes, huh? All this time you’ve been running around my town asking questions about my religion. You never thought to ask me if I believe in a Smiling God at all.”

“You’re joking.” Charles is almost feeling a bit dizzy. Sure, Kevin is frequently irreverent, but that is just his way of worship! Of _course_ he believes.

“Will you calm down.” Kevin gestures towards the sofa. “Let me explain. Let me tell you a little story.”

“A parable?”

“Just a story.”

Charles sits down. “I’m listening.”

Kevin delicately clears his throat. “Okay, listener- sorry. My dear. At the start, please picture a man.”

Charles attempts to comply.

“Is that the best you can do?” Kevin asks.

“What? Come on…”

“Make him a little handsome at least, will you. He is our protagonist after all.”

“Fine? I guess?”

“Well, okay. We’ll go with your perception of a man for now.” Kevin shrugs resignedly. “This man I speak of is not in a fantastic spot in his life right now. He may have been made to think he is by certain parties outside of our story, but he’s not, because our man has been enslaved by a ruthless and tyrannical corporation.”

“This is about Strex again, isn’t it?” Charles asks.

“Please don’t interrupt me again.” Kevin perches primly on the sofa and continues. “This man, you see, is not who he once was. He’s nothing much, really. He has nothing in abundance, or even in a sufficient amount. He hasn’t got enough food. He hasn’t got enough money to make rent. He hasn’t got enough mind to scrape together to comprehend the injustice of this. The only thing there is in abundance is work. He is in pain, dragging his shambling, savaged husk of a body forward, always on the point of total exhaustion, but he is smiling, because that’s how things are in these days. He is thriving, to what we will generously call his mind, and so, so happy. He is not thriving, actually.

Today, this pitiful wretch of a creature somehow manages to stumble upon an old oak door on his way to work. The door simply appears, in the middle of an empty sidewalk, and no one knows what drives this man in his benighted mind to do this, but he opens the door and slips through.

He finds himself in a vast, empty desert. In the distance there’ a single mountain, and a lighthouse atop the mountain. Not very interesting, the man thinks to himself. He must go back now. He is about to start his work day, and he knows what happens to people who are late for work. So he turns around. But the old oak door he came through has now vanished. He is alone, stranded in the desert.

He wanders through the desert for a long time, looking for another way home. None is revealed to him. He is close to dying of thirst and hunger, but at the same time, he is content, because there is no work here. His supervisor is not here, demanding he work ever harder if he wants to live. But he misses his hometown, listeners. Perhaps he even misses you.”

This time, Kevin doesn’t correct the mistake, doesn’t even acknowledge it. His eyeless sockets are pointed at some spot in the middle distance above Charles’s left shoulder. He is far off, as if he has become the story.

“And then one day,” Kevin continues, “when the man is already content to lay down and die… something miraculous happens.”

Oh?

“The ground opens up. A gigantic, otherworldly beast rises from the ground, and behold, it is a centipede, only much, much larger than a centipede would be expected to be. The man, prone in the sand, beholds its massive nightmare body, its skittering legs the size of tree trunks, its blank, black eyes, its glistening feelers, its enormous maw. And, beneath the pincers and mandibles and some such, it looks a bit like that giant mouth… is smiling. The widest smile in the world.

Now, recently the man has heard tale of a Smiling God. It’s been rather vaguely alluded to, “believe in a smiling god” no more than a couple of buzzwords, a phrase with little meaning. Believe that a god, in the vaguest sense, is smiling and pleased with you, provided you work hard and reach your full productive potential. Often the man has wondered what a Smiling God would actually be like, why It is smiling, and most importantly, what It wants him to do. He has received nothing in answer to these questions except for shocks from his obedience collar, which is triggered every time he has an unapproved idea or isn’t thinking enough happy thoughts. It kicks back into gear and delivers the same shock now, but our man barely notices. He looks up at the monster that came up from the ground and thinks, well, this is something.

And he has a thought.

They never quite got the hang of stopping him having those.

This centipede is huge, it’s commanding. It’s smiling. What if he gets home and tells other people about this? That he has seen the Smiling God, that everyone is being told time and again is all-important?

Meanwhile, the big monster, doubtlessly searching for food, attempts to swallow our man, who manages – barely! – to scramble aside. He stays very still and the centipede, which seems to react to movement, does not attempt upon him again. Disappointed, it dives back into the sand, leaving behind a puddle of a viscous liquid that dripped from its feelers. The man gets down on his knees and laps up the effluvia, and it’s the first thing he’s had to drink in days, and it’s like benediction.

The man, alight with his new idea, tears through the tote bag containing his work things, plus a small water bottle that he drained days ago. He grabs a ballpoint pen and anything there is to write on and, as a plan forms in him, he writes…

He spends his days now seeking out the creature again. The fluid from its feelers is what sustains him. Over time, he becomes quite familiar with the creature’s habits and hunting patterns as well as the desert around him, so he can triangulate wherever it will appear next. Meanwhile he is writing, always writing, and the yellow legal pad he uses to do so is fast becoming a tome. Eventually, when the man has filled every available scrap of paper with his revelations, and the meaning he extrapolates from them, another old oak door appears before him and he passes through, back to his hometown, with his new text, the Book of Devouring.”

“And that man was… you?” Charles asks.

“Me?” Kevin winks. “It’s just a story, Charles. Take the meaning that you want from it.”

With that he leaves the room and goes to teach Donovan the Desert Bluffs rules for Go Fish, and Charles is left sitting on the couch with his mind in complete shambles.

* * *

 

He corners Kevin about it as soon as it is physically possible, which is after Donovan has gone to bed.

“You wrote the Book of Devouring, didn’t you?” he opens. Charles hasn’t seen the Book of Devouring, as apparently it was lost, but he’s gotten the impression that it’s something like the Joyous Congregation’s bible.

“Did I?” Kevin winks again. He rubs his neck, specifically the scarred spot where the collar sat, as he always does when he recalls a painful memory. “I remember writing,” he admits. “Twitching and spasming in pain at every non-corporate-approved word. I blacked out _a lot_ from all those shocks in such quick succession. Maybe had a seizure or two. But it paid off. Strex notwithstanding, I was still the Voice. When I got back and started spreading my gospel, people listened. And what could Lauren do about it? She herself had taken care to instill the image of a Smiling God into the people’s minds. And, more or less, that’s how I became a prophet.” Kevin sighs. “Things got easier then. More work, of course, but what else was new. I was moved out of the employee barracks and got my own one-bedroom. People left me alone. No one could feasibly threaten to kill me anymore. Lauren had to take me seriously as the church became an institution parallel to Strex. Of course I had to toe company line, but it was something. She thought she could just take my eyes, shut off my powers, put me under. Not so!”

The whole religion is a power grab, Charles thinks. Or, not a power grab. A desperate bid for survival.

“So it’s not real? None of it is real?”

“It’s real enough,” Kevin says softly. “Remember Donnie’s miracle. That was as real as it gets. I don’t know _what_ it was, but it _happened_ , that’s for sure.”

“But was it the Smiling God? How can it be, when the Smiling God is something you made up?” Charles’s head is spinning. To him as a theologist, this is simply fascinating information. But he’s way too involved in all this to coolly catalogue it and move on. As a citizen of Desert Bluffs (albeit a relatively new one) and boyfriend to Kevin, he is reeling, at a loss for what to do. People in town genuinely believe in the Smiling God, pour their all into the Congregation. All those people attending the church, organizing the sermons and prayer groups and church camps and classes for the kids… deriving meaning and purpose in life from their faith. And here Kevin is, saying he invented it all, for… for a one-bedroom and fewer death threats. Does Charles have to tell them? Disillusion them? Potentially cause problems for Kevin? Who is his duty to?

Kevin primly crosses his legs. They moved this conversation to the living room, Charles having sort of walked in and muted the movie Kevin was watching. “Is it made up? Is it real? Who’s to say?”

“ _You’re_ to say. The whole religion came from you, it didn’t come from nothing. And that’s just something you tell people, that you don’t know.” Charles feels… he can’t even say how. Disappointed, maybe, strangely.

He’s too close. This isn’t about collecting information for his research any longer. He has started to believe, not so much in the Smiling God but in Kevin. That Kevin was connected to something tangible, something true out here, something more real and manifest than the endless speculating and theorizing and philosophizing that characterizes Charles’s field of study.

“Listen. Charles.” Kevin smiles at him softly, a gentle, comforting, understanding smile. In another preacher, it would be their Absolution Smile, but the Joyous Congregation doesn’t have confessionals and doesn’t dispense absolution. People don’t confess their sins in Desert Bluffs. They compartmentalize them and move forward. Besides, everyone knows what everyone did. “Some people insist on following the Book of Devouring to the letter, and that the Smiling God is a giant centipede. Or that it is a light. Or that it has no form. Or that it heralds the great glowing coils of the universe unraveling. Or that it is a metaphor for purity, or community spirit, or nuclear annihilation. Some say the Smiling God has teeth or feelers or eyes or none of these attributes. Or that it is a fake construct I created to gain power within a cruel system, and which – the concept, not the system – I now wield to rule this community with a none-too-gentle hand. Those are all valid theological takes! Even that last one.”

“Hmmm.” Charles is not convinced.

“As for myself, I regard the Smiling God as… something that has helped me. It helped me survive when I was at my lowest. Is that not all you can ask of a god?”

“Well, It helped you survive in a metaphorical way…”

“God helps those who help themselves,” Kevin parries, quick as a shot. “Is that not common to believe?”

Charles shakes his head. “That’s something people say because deep down they have doubts. They reckon their gods won’t come through for them in a way that matters because maybe they don’t exist.”

“And who doesn’t have doubts? Whose faith is absolute?”

_Yours,_ Charles thinks. _Or so I thought._

“Who’s to say that the Smiling God wasn’t with me that day?” Kevin adds. Charles perks up. “I don’t know where that old oak door came from. Maybe the Smiling God _was_ out there, showing me a way towards… a kind of revelation my mind could comprehend.”

He steeples his fingers and continues: “There are many things we do not know, Charles. Why does the sun not set in Desert Bluffs? How do the doors between dimensions work? Why can some people cross back and forth freely, while others cannot? What powers this dimension? What is the purpose of the lighthouse on the mountain? Well, Car- well, _some people_ would insist that there must be a scientific explanation, to which I would say, you spent a lot of time here, Mr. Scientist, and you haven’t found it yet, so you _gave up_ and you _left_ … ahem. All this to say, can’t the Smiling God be explanation enough?”

Charles scratches his head. Kevin rarely mentions that scientist, from over in that other town. He explained about doubles, and tacked on some cryptic remark about the presence, absence or existence of Carlos not having anything to do with… anything at all, between them, you get my drift, it wasn’t like that. What Charles did get from all this was a sense of there being some old wounds, still a bit sore. That scientist seems like a fascinating man to get to meet (a doppelgänger?) even if Charles can’t wrap his mind around how someone can have the fancy of Kevin and exchange it for… something else. Whatever that guy exchanged it for. Anything else. It’s nuts.

But they’re not sitting here to talk about that, so Charles steers them back on topic. “But you can’t _know_ it’s the Smiling God.”

“Not precisely, no,” says Kevin. “I am acting what we in religion call ‘on faith’.”

Touché, Charles guesses.

“So, do I believe in the Smiling God? My answer would be yes, with a sizeable caveat.”

Well, that neatly summarizes the relationship that many people have with their faith. Most people of faith, Charles has found in the course of his research, quite earnestly believe, but not precisely in the way it’s taught at the local church, or in the way their neighbors believe, or in the way an imagined or real majority believes. Most people square it out with themselves, and only their gods standing witness.

So what? Can he be, what, disappointed that Kevin is not infallible? That he’s not wired to something irrefutable, some deeper, harder-hitting truth? Theology was never an exact science.

Still, he feels what he feels.

Kevin, tilting his head to the side, seems to have hit on it too. “Charles,” he says, and there’s a subtle hint in his voice of a “tut-tut”. “Do you mind terribly? That I fall short of the ideal? That I’m just reaching in the dark like any other human being, attempting to put an optimistic spin on it for my radio audience? That I can’t entirely fulfill your little fantasy?”

The look in Kevin’s eyes says… nothing. It says “here is a black void for your viewing pleasure” and nothing else. This should make him hard to read, but Charles has lived with Kevin long enough to learn to spot his other tells. The tilt of Kevin’s head, the lopsided curl of his mouth, quite clearly communicates _Gotcha_.

He lifts a hand to his mouth as he chuckles. “What? Didn’t think I’d notice that? We had sex in church, Charles, you’re hardly subtle.”

Charles feels his face heat up. At least he hasn’t got the kind of skin tone to show a blush. “I don’t… I mean… that’s for me to work on, yeah. But if it had turned out you were actually, wholeheartedly scamming the town, then yes, I would be disappointed.”

Kevin nods. “And you’d be right to. But, Charles?”

“Yeah?”

“I would appreciate if you didn’t quote me on any of this in a paper. I love you, and I know you must do your job, and I don’t want to inconvenience you. But I will deny ever having said any of this.”

Charles rubs his face. This conversation has been tiring. “ _Any_ of it?”

Kevin folds his hands in his lap, a tad nervously, it seems. “Except for that I love you.”

Again, there is this unspoken question to it: Is this a deal-breaker? Does this outweigh the benefits of this relationship for you now? Charles knows his immediate answer to both these questions: no, of course not.

“I understand,” he says, and, “I love you too.”

It’s not quite certain who initiates the hug. Just that they hold each other on the couch for a silent, meditative minute.

Then Charles says, “Kevin?”

“Hmmm?”

“Have you ever told anyone this? Your real thoughts about the Smiling God, not what you tell the town?”

They both know implicitly that the other understands the gravity of this, when Kevin says, “No. And I suspect I never will again.”

 

* * *

 

Ever since Charles found out about Strexcorp and the nature of Kevin’s involvement therewith, Kevin has been waiting for the other shoe to drop. He’s been on the lookout for something changing, for Charles treating him differently, for any difference in Charles’s behavior really. He’s seen nothing of the sort. Their debate about the Smiling God, and hearing that not every word in the Book of Devouring and related texts is an absolute truth, seems to have bothered Charles more than all the murder stuff. That’s academics for you, Kevin reckons. Why, he’s just a humble journalist, he doesn’t possess a single memory of having been to college. (Which is not the same statement as “he’s never been to college” – what with the state of Kevin’s memory. He might as well have.) He thought murder would have outweighed religious doubt on the badness scale. Either morals are much more complicated than he remembers them being, or Charles isn’t a shining beacon of righteousness after all, and his moral compass is as bent into a slightly weird shape as anybody else’s.

Keeping his sight primed on Charles for any sign of discontent with their relationship happens to cause Kevin to neglect to surveil other things, and people, such as Lauren, which in hindsight will turn out to be something akin to a mistake.

Kevin is in his booth, reading out the community calendar. This part of the broadcast has been there before Strex, during Strex, and it is still there after Strex. Kevin knows that Cecil over in Night Vale does it too – it is the exact type of thing for which community radio is made. And something is important about the radio. Kevin’s not sure what it is, but it always seemed to him like the radio show and the town are inseparably intertwined. There has been a radio host in Desert Bluffs before Kevin, and there will be a radio host here after him – otherwise, he suspects, there wouldn’t be a town here either. The Voice of Desert Bluffs is an institution, something bigger than him and much older than him. To anyone asking, Kevin would proclaim that his office and the abilities it affords are derived from the Smiling God, but sometimes, late at night when he can’t sleep, he suspects that this is older even than the Smiling God. Even Strex couldn’t shut down the radio, and so they chose to merely tame it, domesticate it, and use it as a propaganda device, with… mixed success. And therefore, even as things changed so much, Kevin is still doing a radio show, even when he might as well not do it. It’s nice – it’s one of the most tranquil parts of Kevin’s day. At least it should be.

“On Tuesday around 4 pm, the sky will open up and a rain of earthworms will cover most of the edge-of-town-development on the outermost bluff,” Kevin announces into the microphone. “In related news, Tuesday evening, Lawrence Levine out on the edge of town is going to need some help cleaning up masses of dead earthworms around his homestead, seeing as he isn’t as spry as he used to be. I expect to see some of you guys there! On Wednesday, Lauren… huh. Lauren Mallard will be holding the inaugural meeting of the newly founded Productivity Circle of Hard Work and Traditional Values, whatever that is. I remind you all again that the p-word is banned as per the town charter, _Lauren_. Well, if this is what I think it might be… hmmm, in that case, hmmmmm, it better not be, is all I’m saying.” Here, Kevin has to stop for a second and take a deep breath. “Thursday, the Desert Bluffs Recreational Society is having a garage knife sale on Sunny Street to kickstart their efforts to raise funds for, and this I love, a public swimming pool. Isn’t _that_ a pleasant and worthwhile endeavor, Desert Bluffs? Won’t we all be looking forward to taking our families to the pool? I know I will.”

By Wednesday afternoon Kevin is certain that what he feared was happening is indeed occurring: Lauren is networking again. He really can’t leave her unsupervised…

Lauren appears to have somehow acquired support from several community members being of the opinion, as it were, that not everything was all that bad under Strex. They’re young people who weren’t around the first time, or old people with money squirreled away who reckon they would buy themselves protection from the conditioning and the tortures and the heavy labor and the other icky, bloody stuff. They’re dissatisfied with the current establishment, but of the wrong ideological tint to simply take up with Adam and the Citizens. They’re hoping to score management positions alongside Lauren. They assume that when the city topples a second time, they’ll end up on top of the smoking ruins.

The worrisome thing is that they seem willing to back Lauren financially. Kevin had hoped that here, now, stripped off her status, her drones, her very smile and most importantly her money, Lauren would remain a serpent defanged, no longer a threat. But people willing to bankroll a Strexcorp 2.0…

That evening, Kevin calls a meeting of the church elders. They gather in his own home, and appraise the situation.

They have already spread a map of the town on the desk in Kevin’s office (which is just a fancy misnomer for the cluttered little room he uses to file paperwork) and drawn circles in red sharpie around the homes of everyone concerned, as is proper when you’re conspiring.

“By tomorrow night, I want this sorted,” Kevin is saying, tapping the map with the sharpie. “You all get some people together, pay them a little visit.”

There is a general nodding and affirmative muttering from everyone assembled.

Kevin doesn’t hear the front door go, just that Charles suddenly appears in the room, looking puzzled and charmingly handsome. “What’s going on?”

“Just tying some loose ends, honey. Hi.” Kevin blows him a kiss and turns back to the table. “Just get this done quick, I don’t want a fuss.”

“On the other hand…” someone says, “Maybe a public show of our discontent… would discourage others in the future.”

Kevin turns towards the speaker, a woman by the name of Patricia. Zealous. “Maybe so.”

There are mutterings among the assembled elders.

“How do we actually punish infractions like this? If we let this slide… this could turn into a threat.”

“Yeah. Can’t go easy on ‘em.”

Kevin chuckles. “What are you suggesting? We ritually stone them in the town square? Like in the story?”

Some of the elders (no one here is in fact particularly elderly) shake their heads. Some… don’t.

“We could impound their estates. It’s the financial backing that’s the problem, right?” says Stefania, who’s been gunning for an assistant pastor position. Kevin knows her to be eager and diligent, fascinated with the inner workings of the church. A girl who shows promise. “I heard the Recreational Society needs funds for a pool.”

“For sure. Put it on the list, Herardo.” Herardo, his mouth still pinched shut around the piece of limestone he’s keeping in there, nods and signs an okay before jotting it down. Kevin glances at his protocol to double-check. Ritual stoning made it onto the list as well.

Charles has been standing in the door, casting looks between everyone’s serious faces. “Um,” he says now.

“Yes, Charles, is there a problem,” Kevin asks, trying to communicate via his inflection that while he loves Charles very much, this is not a meeting he’s been invited to.

“Can I just have a word with you in private,” Charles requests.

“Of course.” Kevin nudges Charles out of the room. “This won’t take long,” he says to the assembly, although he cannot promise any such thing.

As soon as they’re alone, Charles grasps Kevin by the arm. His handsome face is looking deeply troubled. “Kevin, what is going on in there? Someone said they wanted to stone people to death?”

Kevin sighs. “It’s Lauren again. She got some people together and they’re thinking of trying another start-up.”

“Like Strex?” Charles’s hand on Kevin’s arm tightens for a moment, squeezing.

“Like Strex,” Kevin confirms.

“Jesus.”

“Not in this house.” Kevin grins.

“How can you joke now?” Charles still hasn’t let go of Kevin’s arm. “Kevin, please don’t kill anybody.”

For a second, Kevin’s totally, genuinely puzzled. The world has been a swirling vortex of action for the whole day, and now it grinds to a halt. “You want me to… spare them?”

Charles nods. His eyes are big and pleading and beautiful and _there_. “Please.”

_“Why?”_

“You told me…” Charles swallows convulsively. Kevin watches his Adam’s apple bob with some fascination. “It’s in the past. You said… you don’t do that anymore. You said it was the brainwashing…”

“This,” Kevin replies, “is different. This is about defending my town. And didn’t you say not too long ago that if this happened again, you would… oh, I don’t know, do something dashing and heroic? It’s happening now, Charles, and I’m not taking you up on what you said, I’m just asking you to stay inside with Donovan tomorrow night and let me do what I need to do.”

“But they haven’t done anything yet, have they? They had a meeting and talked, that’s all.”

“I don’t intend to wait around until they do something. We did that last time, because there was _some guy_ there talking big about how we could settle this peacefully if we just all stuck together, and how violence had to be our last resort. Boy, was he surprised.”

_I resent that,_ says the shard of a person from way in the past inside Kevin’s mind, with an uptight sniffle.

_Oh god, and here I’d hoped I’d heard the last of you,_ Kevin thinks back. It had been so blessedly silent inside his own head lately. Up until now, apparently.

“Who was that guy?” Charles, who might be a bit slow on the uptake, asks.

“Me, Charles, and they carved my eyes out of my skull for it and I was fully awake during that, wasn’t I just!” Kevin laughs, high and hysterical even to his own ears. Which, well, sure, he might be losing it a little, but that doesn’t make him less right.

“But not these people, Kevin,” Charles argues. “What are you going to do, break people’s doors down, murder them in front of their families? That’s… hon, that’s… bad.”

_It is what they used to do,_ the other Kevin deep down inside whispers. _We really are like them now, huh?_

“Shut up! Both of you. We can’t let them get off easy. They can’t undermine us like that.”

Charles looks around. “There’s… only me here. And there must be another way. Why not just… detain them… let them have a trial at least—”

“Detain them where? It’s not like we built a jail here. It’s not like there’s a justice system. I thought you were completely on board with theocracy, well, here you have it. Justice is derived from the church, that is to say, from me.”

“Not like this though,” Charles says. “Not like this.”

Kevin feels wired, somehow, electricity threading through his every vein. He’s quaking a little with too much pent-up emotion. Somewhere at the back of his mind, pushed back there and threatening to spill forth, is the black abyss of panic and it’s taking over, because someone wants to start Strex again. It could all come back. It could all come back. They could put the collar back on him, they could…

Kevin clenches his fists at his sides to hide how much they’re shaking. He grits his teeth. He’s aware that he’s vibrating faintly. He has allowed himself to be swept along by the events, towards an immediate course of action and hopefully, finally, a complete elimination of the threat. He can’t stop and think about it now, or he will collapse.

“You,” he says to Charles through gritted teeth, “are woefully unprepared to face the reality of the situation. That’s okay, you weren’t there for it, but don’t tell me how to act now. I can do this, and I’m prepared to do this, and I have done this. You’ve been quick to reconcile yourself morally with a bunch of nameless dead people in the distant past that have died by my hand. You don’t like it as much when it’s right in front of you, hmm? You don’t like it as much when it touches you directly. Harder to deny it that way, harder to look away and pretend you’re dating a different person from the one who did all those killings. Here’s the thing though, nothing changed between then and now.”

At this point, Charles is looking a bit gray in the face. “That’s not true.”

“And how would you know?”

Charles shakes his head. “Are you… doing this for my sake? You think I need a reality check, is that it? You think I shouldn’t be okay with you being who you are and having the past you have, so now you’re playing it up?”

“Nonsense,” Kevin spits. Of course he’s not doing this because of Charles. Or is he?

_I couldn’t stick around and wait for the other shoe to drop by itself. Better to confront him with it now. Is that it?_

**_Is_** _that it?_ The fragment of the other Kevin shows an interest again. _And is he wrong? Take care not to become the element you’re trying to replace. That’s a legitimate lesson to be taking away from a revolution. If you go around murdering dissenters in the streets without any reason to, what makes you different than Strexcorp?_

The answer, of course, is “because it’s me doing it”. It’s not always an answer that holds up. Sometimes, yes, when the line between good and arguably evil is clearly drawn. Such situations do exist. But right here, right now, is the moral high ground a given? Since when does Kevin need to concern himself with that? _Gah_. Why do things have to be complicated? It all used to be so much easier back when he simply read corporate-manufactured news reports into a microphone and got told by memo who to dismember.

But no. He cannot think like that. If he thinks like that, he’ll go back on the happy pills. He’ll start missing Strex too.

“Don’t.” Kevin presses his hands to his temples. He’s mildly lost track of who he’s even addressing. “Don’t you two dare gang up on me. Let me think about this for a _minute_ —”

“There’s only me,” Charles repeats. His hand on Kevin’s arm is back, this time soothing, steadying. “Maybe you should, um, maybe you need to lie down? You’re looking a little stressed—”

“I’m not stressed.” Even as he says it, though, Kevin can feel the fight going out of him, ebbing away with every second Charles holds on to him in that reassuring way.

“You’re still on top of this, my sunray,” Charles mutters, and somehow now they’re hugging. Huh. “You’re okay. You’ve got this, you’re in charge, you can deal with this without reverting back to how you were.”

“Are you sure about this,” Kevin says, muffled because he’s burying his face in Charles’s shirt, and it comes out more timid than he had intended it to.

“If I was ever sure of anything, it’s you,” Charles murmurs in the direction of Kevin’s hair. “You’re powerful. No one fucks with you. No one is undermining you, okay?”

Kevin doesn’t say it, barely allows himself to even think it, but it hits hard. The other Kevin seems to think so too, because he says, _we’ve got a good thing here, huh? So, what’s it going to be? Are you going to handle this being the guy Strex wanted you to be, or are you going to be the guy he thinks you can be, the guy he wants to raise his son with? That’s your choice now._

“We do have a good thing here,” Kevin concludes.

“Will you tell me who you’re talking to?” Charles asks.

“Later.” He’ll probably have to tell Charles about the other Kevin from way back when. It won’t be easy to explain, and Charles might get it wrong, start thinking that the other Kevin actually exists within the present Kevin’s mind. It’s not so. There simply is this… disconnect between him and the person he used to be. It’s easier, somehow, treating the memory of that like some sort of alternate personality, someone that never was real, that never was him. “I’ll have to get back in there now.”

He gathers himself together, and heads back into the office, where the church elders are still waiting.

“Alright,” he says. “Why don’t we all brainstorm some non-lethal alternatives to ritual stoning now.”

He gets astonished looks for that one. It’s not what he would have done in the past, and he gets how it’s surprising. He’s surprised by himself.

“We could lock them up in the police station,” someone volunteers. “Like in the basement?”

“Nice thinking, Keon, but it does mean we’re responsible for them. Prisoners need caring for. I don’t have time for that, and I imagine neither does anyone else,” says Kevin.

“Run them out of town,” comes a suggestion from a young man named Darren, a thoughtful guy, oodles of community spirit. “Really push the whole exile thing for once.”

That last thing smacks of criticism, and Kevin raises his eyebrows at the guy, but doesn’t get into it. “You mean, give them an opportunity to establish a base of operations out in the desert? Unsupervised? That way, we might have a much larger problem on our hands later.”

“There’s always the transdimensional rift,” Stefania says. “Put ‘em in there, they all come out in different dimensions.”

“That’s one hell of an exile,” Herardo signs.

“It’s merciful compared to what we could do,” Kevin concludes. “As a compromise, it’ll have to do.”

No one dares ask what exactly is being compromised here, and with whom.

“Alright!” Kevin claps his hands. “You’ll get a few people together, collect everyone at the rift. Don’t kill anyone, I guess, but don’t hesitate to rough them up a little on my account if they try anything.”

“Lauren too?” Stefania asks.

Kevin considers it for a second. “Leave Lauren,” he says. “Who cares. Maybe she’ll learn from this.”

 

* * *

 

Charles watches from a hidden vantage point as they round up the conspirators by that rip in space-time that keeps opening up on Pleasant Street. Apparently that thing is good for something after all. He never told Kevin he wouldn’t watch, so he feels it is within his rights to do so, but he took care to leave Donovan with Grandma Josephine, who will be sure to keep him away from all this.

The conspirators are a pathetic little group, and some of them show signs of rough handling. The people from the Temple of Joy are armed, no one makes use of a weapon, but they make it apparent that they could if they wanted to. Kevin is there, and, Charles has to admit, he’s looking stunning, a light breeze dramatically ruffling his church robe, his right hand resting on the hilt of his knife, a pointed gesture. Even from up here, well away from the crowd, Charles can feel him radiating power.

No one is smiling as the conspirators are shoved, one by one, towards the rift and pushed in. No one says anything. The scene carries itself out in eerie silence.

It is not a joyful day.

 

* * *

 

After this, Kevin sleeps at his own place for a few days. It’s not that they’re fighting, or have fought, or will fight. They simply both agreed to take some time and room to breathe.

Once tempers have cooled, Charles drives himself to Kevin’s house again.

It’s raining at Kevin’s house, and _only_ there. The neighboring places are still baking in a dry, unremitting sun. But there is the tiniest, most singular, most stationary raincloud in the sky, pouring down upon Kevin’s flower garden. The cause of the phenomenon is sitting on the back porch, watching this occur. He’s put on a Sally Oldfield record, back inside the house, and the music is wafting out through the screen door. At least, Charles guesses Kevin put on a record. Otherwise, there would just be disembodied Sally Oldfield, playing from… somewhere.

Charles approaches. “You’re making weather, aren’t you?”

If Kevin is surprised that Charles is here, he doesn’t show it. He simply nods. “You’ve seen this before, haven’t you?”

“Not up close.” Charles steps onto the porch and, a bit hesitantly, puts a hand on the small of Kevin’s back as they lean beside each other against the railing. “Are you okay?”

Kevin gives him a small smile, a genuine one. It would ‘reach his eyes’, if there were eyes. As it is, Charles sees the small lines below his sockets crinkle and grow more pronounced, which is much the same thing. “Why would I not be?”

“I just thought… well, rain means sad, right?”

“Not at all. It simply means I’m in the mood for rain. It’s a joyous occasion, out here in the desert.”

Charles figures that’s true. “You couldn’t just water the flowers normally, could you?”

“It’s such a hassle, going back and forth with the can.” Kevin yawns. He yawns quite impressively, with all those teeth.

“Are… _we_ okay?” Charles asks.

Kevin turns to face him. He considers Charles in silence for a moment, evidently thinking it over. “I… would like for us to be,” he says at last.

“Me too.” Charles closes the gap between them then and presses a kiss to Kevin’s lips, soft and quick. “I’m glad you didn’t kill anyone the other day.”

“I can do different things, it seems.” Kevin smiles, then stops smiling. “You know, I don’t want people to be afraid of me. I want people to like me, and be happy, so that everyone can just be happy, with the situation, generally.”

“You’ll get there,” Charles says, wrapping his arms around Kevin’s waist. “I’m sure you will.”

 

* * *

 

“We should both take a day to… unwind from all this.”

It’s one of these weird Charles suggestions, like ‘people need eight hours of sleep, approximately’ or ‘you don’t need to hoard food anymore for when the next corporate-engineered shortage hits’ or ‘take a day off work’. Kevin has learned to pay attention to these suggestions because, as outlandish as they may seem sometimes, more often than not, Charles ends up being right.

“What kind of a day do you have in mind?” he asks.

Charles grins his most fetching grin, the one that Kevin will never tire of. “A perfect one.”

The following day is a Saturday, ideal for what Charles has planned. Donovan gets to spend the day at his best friend’s house, which he is delighted by. “We’ll just kick back and treat ourselves,” Charles explains, “just be ridiculously indulgent for a day. To relax.”

Kevin is beginning to understand. “Like that one time I took a day off.”

“Yes,” Charles says. “But let’s do more with it this time.”

Kevin tries to think of the most ridiculously indulgent scenario he can imagine. “We could… watch the TV and eat pancakes?”

Charles looks at him with fondness. “Think bigger.”

Kevin grins, feeling a wild excitement take him over. “We could be in our pjs.”

“We could.” Charles grins. “Or you could have a spa day, or get a manicure, or you’ll just stay home and not lift a finger all day and I’ll make food for you or draw you a bath and we’ll make love, maybe.”

It’s becoming apparent to Kevin that Charles is imagining and _desiring_ some specific scenario here, and it will probably not involve the nail salon. It’s a bit of an odd thing to draw pleasure from, to Kevin, who has had to be selfish in nature for a long time, but who is he to complain? Nonetheless he asks, “And what will _you_ do that’s relaxing?”

“Getting to pamper you _is_ relaxing to me.” Charles smiles, half abashed, half flirty. “Well, okay, I might take a break to read Dune again.”

“Charles.” Kevin suppresses a groan. “You’ve read Dune, what, sixteen times now?”

“It’s a comfort book.”

Well, then.

* * *

 

Charles’s perfect day begins with breakfast in bed.

Now usually breakfast, for Kevin, is a rather hasty affair. He has a cup of coffee and whatever else is quick to prepare, mostly cereal. He doesn’t like to waste time on it, already feeling impatient to be on the way to the radio station. This morning is different. Charles prepares a luxurious spread, not just coffee and cereal but eggs and bacon and toast and three kinds of jam and a complimentary fruit platter, and he places it all on a tray on Kevin's knees before Kevin can say more than "good morning". They feed each other bites off each other's forks until everything feels slightly sticky, crumb-ridden and indecent. Even so, they still manage to squeeze in some extremely enjoyable time in the shower before Donovan wakes up.

Kevin is left to his own devices while Charles sees to it that Donovan also gets breakfast, and later drives him to his playdate. So he fetches his knitting needles and works on his shawl-in-progress, which is a creative hobby, not a chore, so it should be fine. He has just gotten bored of that and started painting his nails instead when Charles comes back.

They make out a little, then Charles slips off into the kitchen, from which he eventually returns with mimosas and the cutest homemade petit fours. While Kevin gets comfortable on the couch in the only pair of sweatpants he owns, Charles settles in between his legs and rubs his ankles. They put on a movie, but soon turn it off again in favor of focusing on each other as Kevin waits for his nails to dry.

“So this really does it for you?” he inquires.

“A bit.” Charles shrugs. “It’s not… exactly the kind of thing I have in mind, but close enough.”

“What do you have in mind, pray tell?” Kevin asks in his most silky radio voice, the one that makes people tell him secrets. Makes them do other things too, if he really needs it.

Charles is suddenly up in Kevin’s face again, leaning in, whispering in Kevin’s ear: “I imagine you in silk and jewels,” he breathes, “on a throne of gold and marble, doted on by a dozen attendants. Everyone bends to your every whim and worships you and despairs of it.”

Kevin can’t help it, he snickers. What a silly image. “Why?”

“Because you’re a powerful religious icon, but you never let yourself have any of the spoils of it.”

“Charles, please. I’m a journalist and a civil servant, not some ancient queen who bathes in milk and eats diamonds, or whatever.”

Now, for some reason, it’s Charles who seems to derive amusement from this. “Is that how you see it?” Before Kevin can ask what he means, Charles grabs a dog-eared novel off the couch table and hands it to him. “Read to me, please?”

Kevin looks from Charles’s puppy eyes to the book in his hands. He sighs. It’s _Heretics of Dune_ , again. “I’ll only read this out loud if you suck me off during.”

“That’s fair enough.” Charles is already slipping lower down again, leaving a trail of kisses in his wake, and Kevin opens the book, shivering because Charles has hiked up his t-shirt and flicked his tongue against his right nipple.

He does indeed draw Kevin a bath after a frankly amazing sensual experience, with the bubbles and a fancy bath bomb he bought earlier for this express purpose. Kevin has an understanding of bubble baths but he’s never been in one, so he is determined to treasure this. The water is a wonderful temperature, just this side of too hot, which is exactly the way he usually likes to shower. Kevin leans back in the bathtub, sets his by this point second mimosa down and luxuriates in this unexpected perfect day, and that is when the vision hits.

This has happened a couple of times before, so he’s not totally in the dark about the nature of the event when his mundane vision, as in the view before his eyes, whites out and the presence of his god overwhelms him. As always, this is accompanied by a feeling of light, airy, out-of-this-world euphoria that comes with experiencing the divine. The blinding light of the Smiling God’s love fills him up totally, he’s lifted up by it, carried away by it, it is him and his deity communing, melding, entwining in a formless, shapeless elsewhere that is hot and bright like the core of a sun.

A deep hum fills his ears, permeates his whole body. This usually precludes the vision proper. A moment (a second, an hour, an eternity) passes and he’s a live wire, vibrating with the force of the all-encompassing hum. Then the images flood him, images of a future.

_A fist (his fist?) connecting with a jaw, the solid and incredibly satisfying **thunk** as the punch hits home. That one room at the back of the radio station, where he keeps things from the past, things best left there, things that have to be unearthed because something has to be done, something has been taken and he needs it back…_

_The sensation of a dry throat and sweat dripping from his brow into his eye-holes. A crest of dunes in an empty desert. Beyond those dunes lies something he needs, something he has to have, something he desires with a burning, frightening fervor he has never felt the likes of before, because something has been **taken** from him, and if he does not retrieve it… there will be nothing anymore, no warmth, no smiles, only a cold, consuming darkness…_

**Something is coming** , says the deep, booming voice.

Kevin shoots back into awareness like a cork bobbing to the surface of an ocean. The bathwater is now cold. It’s always hard to tell after incidents like this how long he’s been out for. Charles is back in the room and shaking him by the shoulder, his handsome face wreathed in agonizing worry.

“Charles! Let go of me.” Kevin doesn’t usually like being touched so soon after a bout of communion with his deity, he likes a moment to himself to get his bearings. He especially doesn’t love being jostled.

Charles takes his hand off as if stung. “Kevin! Kevin, are you alright? I came back in and you were lying there all stiff but with your eyes wide open like you were having some sort of seizure,” he babbles, “and, and you weren’t responding to anything and I, I had to make sure your head wouldn’t slip under the water, and you seized up, and…”

“I’m fine! I hope you didn’t call an ambulance for this.” There have been incidents like that, because Kevin sure has had visions in public. That one time in the middle of the Dairy Queen he won’t forget in a hurry. Word has gotten around by now, and usually first responders will just leave him there. “The Smiling God revealed Itself to me, that is all.”

Charles’s eyebrows shoot up at the revelation of this interesting fact. “What, like a vision?”

Kevin can see the theologist in him warring with the worried boyfriend for the right and privilege of responding to that. He has seen that look on that face or at least a highly similar face before, during his time with Carlos: the scientist, in that case, wresting with the concerned friend. Honestly, he finds it kind of cute, even in that drained and headachy space that these encounters always leave him in.

“Yes,” he says, “a vision.” By now he’s starting to feel cold and like he would appreciate the comfort of a gentle touch, and he’s regretting being so short with Charles.

“This has happened before?” Charles asks.

“Occasionally. Hey, come back here.”

Kevin beckons Charles closer and, hesitantly, he comes. He intertwines their hands, just gently, and Kevin folds himself awkwardly over the rim of the bathtub to put an arm around him and rest his head on his shoulder. He is getting soapy water all over Charles, but that will be a problem for the future.

“What I don’t get is…” Charles begins, then interrupts himself. “Sorry. If you need a moment…”

“No, I’m okay.” Kevin rolls his eyes – well, no, he doesn’t do that, but the phantom sensation is there. Maybe it’s a good thing that Charles can’t see that. It was a fond eyeroll, anyway. “Hit me.”

“How can you doubt the Smiling God’s presence in your life at all if you’re getting visions from it?”

Well, Kevin’s still feeling a bit shaky, but it’s not the hardest-hitting theological question ever. It’s fine. “There’s always room for doubt,” he says. “If they are visions, do I know they come from the Smiling God, or is it something else communicating with me here? Are they visions? Are they hallucinations? Vivid dreams?”

“Like Joan of Arc?” Charles asks.

“Maybe so,” Kevin says, because he doesn’t know who that is.

“Let’s say it is a vision,” says Charles, ever optimistic. “What did you see? What did it mean?”

_Something is coming. Something will be taken. And if it cannot be retrieved… something all-important vanishes forever._

“That everything’s peachy. Keep up the good work, It said.” Kevin slams his mimosa and waves the empty glass at Charles. “Be a dear now and get me another one of these, and then you can wash my hair for me.”


	6. In the Spectacle of Living

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> guess what! me again!  
> this chapter's a bit shorter than the other ones bc i had to split it up into two (this and the next one) for plot reasons. don't worry about it! everything is fine. everything Will Be fine.
> 
> thanks again to everyone who commented or left kudos!! it always makes my entire week. you're all being beyond lovely about this and i really can't thank you enough.
> 
> today's trope is: sickfic!!!

Doom does not come.

Things are peaceful. Charles finally adopts a cat for Donovan to play with and a week later, Donovan places his sun hat in the cat’s litterbox. Kevin watches on as Charles fruitlessly attempts to figure out why Donovan went through so much trouble to destroy a perfectly innocent sun hat. It makes his hair sweaty, Donovan explains, and will explain no more. When Charles takes him shopping for a new hat, Donovan, normally a calm and well-behaved child, throws a howling, flailing tantrum all the way to the car. But then, about an hour later, when they at last return, Donovan comes bounding up the porch wearing a hat. It’s huge, and floppy, and yellow, and looks more or less just like…

“Daddy, look at me!” Donovan urges. “Daddy, look, I’m you!”

…like the hat that Kevin wears in church.

Kevin can’t stop his grin from spreading. “Oh my! A tiny version of me! What sorcery allowed this to happen!”

Donnie stands and makes the circle-fist gesture that Kevin always opens his sermons with. “Joyfully, It Devours!”

“Ah! You can do my job now!” Kevin almost flips over backwards with sheer joy. “Little man, this is the best thing I have ever seen.”

Soon they’ve got Charles taking pictures of them in their matching hats, and it’s inconceivable that anything bad could ever happen from here on out.

Charles calls during the weather.

This is odd, as Charles doesn’t usually call during the weather, even though Kevin told him that it’s fine. He doesn’t call during the show anymore at all, like he used to when their relationship was just brand-new. He says he likes to experience the radio show as one immersive event, and doesn’t want to interrupt his own listening by calling in on the phone. Kevin appreciates this as the compliment to his radio hosting skills that it’s meant to be, but sometimes he wishes Charles would interrupt him in the middle of the show again, like he just couldn’t care less, like his need to talk to Kevin right at the present moment is greater than anything, an urge that cannot be denied. It’s one of these things that sometimes develop in relationships, unimportant really, but occasionally mildly perplexing.

“Kevin? Hi,” Charles says. “I’m sorry, but I’ll have to call a raincheck on our date tonight.”

“Oh? Did something come up with Josephine?” Kevin asks. As is most often the case when he and Charles want time alone, they asked Grandma Josephine to babysit Donovan, but sometimes, she and her demons move in mysterious ways.

They meant to go to the opening night of Danika Lopez’s new play. The events surrounding the Mudstone Abyss have left Desert Bluffs’ foremost playwright and director with the cozy certainty that Kevin isn’t having artists persecuted in his town, so after the success of her play entitled Pit of Ruin, she has only grown bolder. Her new play is called “What’s With All The Stuff About Teeth?”, a theatrical production of the daring novel written by Night Vale journalist Leann Hart allegedly exposing the Joyous Congregation’s lurid history. Kevin is well aware that this lurid history completely doesn’t exist, and that the most scandalous thing that happens in church is the occasional overly enthusiastic foray by certain unnamed prophets into the communion wine. But he did look forward to mingling at the reception and sitting in front row unnerving all the actors by way of obtrusive staring and loud laughter and applause at all the scenes meant to satirize him personally. (If he also looked forward to wearing something fancy and being shown off as Charles’s arm candy a bit, that’s nothing worth dwelling on.)

“Donnie’s sick,” Charles says.

And

…

“It’s not… throat spiders, is it?” Kevin feels himself gripping his phone tighter.

“No, just the flu,” Charles says. He’s sounding… harrowed in the way a parent will when having a sick child at home.

“You can still die from that!” The smile has slipped completely off Kevin’s face. His own raised voice (he doesn’t often shout things) sounds unnatural to his own ears. What is wrong with him?

“Look, hon, I’ve got this. But he’s running a fever, so I don’t want to leave him alone, I hope you understand. We can probably still go see the play next week.”

“The what? I should come over.” Kevin is already reaching to unplug his headphones.

“You do the show,” Charles says in his calming voice. “Maybe you should stay home tonight, I don’t want you contracting anything.”

“I don’t get sick. Listen, I’ll wrap up here and come over then.” Kevin hangs up before Charles can protest.

There shouldn’t ever be bad news after the weather. That’s not how the format of the show’s supposed to work.

 

* * *

 

“He’s asleep,” Charles whispers as he lets Kevin into the house. “You really didn’t need to come over, it’s not exactly fun here now.”

He seems genuinely worried, of course, about Donovan, but also that Kevin, even for a _minute_ , might not have the best of all times with him. It rankles a bit. Does Charles assume that Kevin is here only for the fun bits of the relationship? That he’ll skip as soon as there’s even a little crisis? That he’ll let Charles care for him and never provide anything in return?

He decides to ignore that for now and gestures in the direction of the stairs. “Can I see…?”

“Yeah, but maybe…” Charles points down at Kevin’s feet, “…quietly.”

Kevin nods and slips out of his heels before proceeding upstairs and into Donovan’s room. Donovan is curled up in bed, sleeping fitfully, a few tousled, sweaty curls stuck to his forehead. Kevin wraps his arms around himself as he stands in the doorway looking. Something in him contracts uncomfortably. This is not a pretty image.

He finds he has to give himself a little nudge to go over and put a hand on Donnie’s little forehead. It’s very hot.

Kevin doesn’t know what to do with this. Admittedly, he hasn’t had to care for a sick person in a long time, (maybe never?) let alone a child. As a kid himself, _he_ was cared for the few times illness happened to him (always the little sibling; Adam hadn’t ever wanted any coddling, not even help with administering t-shots). If you got sick during the reign of Strex, you… simply went through it. The never-ending work continued; asking for leave would equal admitting a weakness, a fatal mistake in those days. Most medications were hard to afford, and very little was covered by Strex Insurance™, although they did give you a courtesy Gatorade, to show they cared. And then you either got better with time or continued deteriorating until ultimately all that was left of you was an empty workspace or maybe, in certain positions, a chipper, grinning Daniel-type android, who did the work much faster and more efficiently anyway.

Things are different now, thank the Smiling God, Almighty Devourer, et cetera.

Kevin has just decided to back off and join Charles downstairs when Donovan starts coughing. He wakes himself up with his coughing fit and it’s _really horrid_ to listen to and Kevin’s not sure what to do here, so he just sort of rubs the kid’s back.

Donovan looks up at him, bleary-eyed and sniffling. “Dad?”

As always it’s a force, Donnie saying that, that would send Kevin to his knees, if he weren’t already down here. “Yes, pumpkin. How are you feeling?”

“Not so good.” Donnie rubs vaguely at his face. “’M hot. And my head hurts…” He yawns and falls silent, apparently too listless to go on describing his ailments.

“Don’t worry.” All words of reassurance sound stale and trite suddenly. It’s funny, Kevin talks for a living, comforting and motivating, rousing and lulling and spinning public opinion to his will day after day, and now he doesn’t have the words to say anything original, anything specifically helpful to the situation. “Pain is transient, my little sunshine,” he manages at last, “like water, or time, or large rocks. You’ll feel better soon, is what I’m trying to say.”

“Okay. Can I have a hug?” Donovan makes puppy eyes. His eyes are the exact shape and color of Charles’s.

Kevin hugs the kid, carefully, carefully.

 

* * *

 

Charles sees to Donovan’s every need way into the night, and cancels his classes and office hours the next day to continue doing so. Kevin is not content to stand by and worry uselessly, especially when he sees Charles nodding off at the dinner table that same day from sheer exhaustion.

“I can absolutely handle things for a few hours,” he insists. “You need rest.”

“I don’t want you catching it too,” Charles argues. “Are you up on your flu shot?”

Kevin isn’t, but it’s not like it matters, right? “No. Needles and… people injecting me with things…” Kevin runs a finger across his throat, where the obedience collar sat. “Let’s say, not a fan. But that’s okay, I never get sick.”

“Everyone says that,” Charles mutters, leaning his head on his hand, because he is very tired.

“It’s true in my case. I’m the Voice of Desert Bluffs, Charles. I can’t be on the radio if I’m sick. I’m pretty sure something would prevent it.” Indeed, Kevin cannot remember ever having gotten any sort of illness ever since he first started interning at the radio station. This is because what he’s saying is true, and certainly not because his memory still has a lot of blank patches in it. He does retain a few hazy memories of being bedridden for some reason or other as a child, but that was before his Voice powers came in and therefore irrelevant.

Charles’s shoulders suddenly slump. “I make sure that Donnie gets all his vaccinations, you know,” he says, sounding miserable, “but with the flu shot this year, I just… we’d been in Pine Cliff for so long, and ghosts…”

Kevin nods. “Can’t catch anything from a ghost.”

“Exactly. And then we moved, and I… forgot. I _forgot_. I was stupid, I was neglectful, and now Donnie is paying the price for that.”

“You mustn’t think like that,” Kevin says.

“Why not?” Charles sags entirely. “I’m supposed to be good dad. That’s all I’m _supposed_ to be!”

Kevin glances around the kitchen for reassurance that no one and nothing, especially not kitchen appliances, can provide. Generalized comfort, one-size-more-or-less-fits-all advice, mild existentialism, that’s more his thing. Optimism, cheer, flat-out denial that bad things could ever be happening. But there is no denying Donovan coughing his little lungs out just upstairs. They can both hear it. Kevin winces, and Charles twitches, moving to get up and check, but Kevin holds up a hand and he capitulates.

“I should go on up,” Charles says, even as he’s drooping with exhaustion. “I have to, don’t you see…”

“I do see,” Kevin says. “I’ve not been doing this as long as you have, but I _have_ been doing it.”

Charles nods, and stays put for the moment.

“This situation… it’s not your failure as a parent,” Kevin tries. “Children – as all people – get sick sometimes, and it’s nothing but an undeniable part of the encompassing spectacle we all stage for the amusement of the gods. It’s life. Besides, flu shots don’t even always work, because of science.” That sounds right, at least. Kevin couldn’t say where he heard that. From Carlos, maybe?

“But…”

“Charles, you must sleep. Everything will look a lot better tomorrow, I’m sure. Not necessarily because the situation will have improved – although it might! – but because you will be going at it with a newly invigorated mind.” Sensing that it’s best to take charge now, Kevin briskly grasps Charles by the arm and begins nudging him towards the bedroom.

“But I need to—”

“I can look after Donovan for a few hours. It will be fine.”

“If he gets worse—”

“If anything concerning happens, I’ll wake you up.” Not relinquishing his grip, Kevin walks Charles up the stairs.

“You’ll have to make sure he drinks some water—”

“Certainly, I will.”

“There are cough drops on the nightstand. The correct dosage is written on the back of the bottle—”

“I can handle this! Go to sleep, Charles!” With an amount of physical strength few would have expected from Kevin’s stature, he all but tosses Charles onto his bed. Charles voices some weak protest at such manhandling, but he’s half-asleep by the time he hits the mattress. Still, with a groan, he attempts to heave himself back up.

“I should really check…” he mutters.

It would be so easy for Kevin to use his radio voice and _make_ Charles go to sleep. But he doesn’t want to, oddly enough. Not with him. It would feel… wrong. So he simply stills Charles with a hand on his chest.

“Dear,” he says, “you’re not useful to anyone if you keel over next. You’re always telling me to get the amount of rest my body requires. Practice what you preach, now.”

_“You_ practice what you preach,” Charles mumbles into his pillow. He’s out cold a second later.

Kevin smiles affectionately, takes Charles’s shoes off for him, and proceeds to Donovan’s bedroom to keep watch there.

It’s a solemn vigil, sitting by Donnie’s bedside, making sure he takes his cough drops. Replenishing the damp cloth on his forehead, shushing him when he tosses in a fever dream. But the eons (no one can say exactly how much time it’s been) have given Kevin the sort of patience that enables someone to sit motionless for hours on end. When the night grows long, he grabs a few samplers of tracts that Stefania and her friend have written and illustrated to be laid out in church. Kevin also grabs a red marker and starts annotating.

He’s not used to solemn things, and doesn’t like them one bit either.

 

* * *

 

During the next few days, a routine swiftly establishes itself. Charles stays in to care for Donovan, and Kevin cares for Charles. Of course he sits with Donovan every day as well, but mostly he runs any errands they might need, harasses the community college into giving Charles paid vacation time, and makes sure Charles will sleep and eat. Donovan remains feverish, but the coughing is subsiding somewhat. He’s still reluctant to take medicine or food or, and this is a little strange, talk to Kevin. He talks to Charles readily enough. But when he is awake, and Kevin’s in the room, he will sometimes…

It’s nothing, Kevin tells himself. Donnie is sick right now. So he doesn’t want to have lengthy conversations with Kevin. So what. He’s tired. That’s probably also why he pretends to sleep or curls up into a ball under his blanket when Kevin enters the room. Kevin’s the adult here. He’s not going to jealously clutch for the affections of a sick child.

Three nights into this, Donnie speaks up.

Kevin has sent Charles to bed and taken the night watch by Donnie’s bedside, but it was a long day at the radio station, and so he finds himself nodding off for a bit. (He used to be able to stay awake for much longer, to endure more. He wondered why, in the past, when they were rebuilding their lovely little town and he began noticing how eight hours of work now left him tired – the standard shift at Strex was at least double that _. No one’s pumping you full of drugs anymore, mijo,_ Grandma Josephine had told him when he asked.) In any case, Kevin is now woken up by a small hand, fever-hot and clammy, patting him back into consciousness.

“Daddy,” Donovan whispers.

Kevin yawns, hugely enough to expose all teeth. Donovan doesn’t flinch; this is a normal sight to him. “Do you need anything, sunshine?”

Donovan pulls his blanket up and over his face, only his eyes peeking out. “No.”

Kevin hides a second yawn behind his hand, then scrapes some grit out of the corner of his eye. His pinky slips into the sublime space of his socket. It feels like scratching a spiritual and annoyingly persistent itch.

People not of Desert Bluffs give him grossed-out looks when he does that. Not Donovan though, or Charles. They’re not grossed out by his scars or teeth or lack of eyes. How blessed, to get to have this.

“Daddy,” Donovan then adds, “are you a bad person?”

Um.

Ouch.

Well. He’s been correct in his suspicion. Something is wrong after all, something beyond the obvious.

“I… don’t know,” Kevin says. “I try to be at my best, as we all do. Why are you asking, sunshine?”

Donovan sighs, the weight of all five years of his existence on his shoulders. “My friend Nancy… Nancy says she can’t play with me anymore because her parents… her parents want to take her to the Rec Center after school.”

“And?” Kevin prompts.

“If she goes to the Rec Center and I go to church classes we can’t be friends anymore,” Donnie explains, all exasperated patience in the face of a clueless adult. “The Rec Center kids hate the church kids. _Everyone_ knows that.” Donovan crunches up the edge of his blanket in his tiny fists. “And Nancy said her parents said she can’t play with me anymore, because my dad’s an op-press-ive government.”

“Is that Nancy Alvarez? Ruth and Rafael’s kid?” Kevin’s mouth asks, while his brain thinks _oh shit._ Donovan nods.

Go figure. Kevin knows the mother is a Citizen, and quite good friends with Adam. The Rec Center on Rapture Street has been occupied by the Citizens for Free Will for a little over a year now. It is their base, it’s where they organize their marches and sit-ins and, yes, youth groups for their kids. Well, what the hell is he supposed to do with this?

“And I asked what op-pressive means and it’s like when someone’s bad,” Donovan adds. “Is that true?”

“You’re way too young to be getting wrapped up in politics.” Kevin pats the hand that’s peeking out from under the blanket. How on earth is he to deliver a comprehensive introduction to all of Desert Bluffs’ bickering factions to a sick child? “Look, buddy, it’s just that some people, including Nancy’s parents, don’t agree with some of the stuff I say on the radio. That’s all. I’m just doing the bidding of our Smiling God, and trying to figure out what’s best for the town. None of this should have anything to do with who you can and cannot play with at daycare.”

“Do all the Rec Center kids have parents who don’t agree with you on stuff?” Donovan asks.

“Yeah.” Kevin nods. “And I can’t help that, but it shouldn’t have to affect you.”

“But it _does_.” Donovan sniffles. “Can’t you just make it so that everyone agrees all the time?”

Kevin chews on his lower lip. He hates to disappoint the kid. “No, sweetheart. _That_ would be oppressive of me.” He pats Donovan’s hand again. “I’m sorry I can’t make this go away, pumpkin. Are you mad at me?”

“I ‘unno.” Donovan yawns, eyes blinking shut. He’s dropping off again, that brief but heavy conversation having made him sleepy. “How much longer do I have to be sick for?”

“Not much longer, I’m sure,” Kevin claims. He has no earthly clue, in fact.

Donovan is asleep again, looking so snug in his blanket nest. Kevin looks down on him and thinks he understands now what Charles feels, why Charles feels the need to sit right here all hours of the day, to do anything in his power to make Donnie all better. Kevin is suddenly overcome by a need to protect this kid. He’s mad at himself, almost, and his politics for causing discord in Donovan’s life. What is he to do to rectify this situation? His mind, sleep-deprived as well, formulates half a dozen radical solutions, each more unlikely than the last. He can’t force the Citizens into submission, that is to say, he probably could, but he doesn’t want to. What else can he do? Abdicate power? Burn his own church down? Prostrate himself before Adam? He can at least try and talk one more time, maybe.

Charles later finds him protectively curled around Donnie, way too much limb for a bed constructed with a five-year-old in mind, solidly asleep. He lifts Kevin up and bridal-carries him into his own bedroom, ignoring the garbled protest this evokes.

“Sorry, hon,” he whispers, “but you’ll really end up catching something if you’re not careful.”

Kevin groans and swats in Charles’s general direction. “Bullshit,” he says, “I’ve never been sick.”

 

* * *

 

Three days later sees Kevin confined to bed and running an impressively high fever. Charles clucks and fusses over him and is generally an unbearable mother hen and Kevin cannot bring himself to appreciate any of it. “You _never_ get sick, huh?” Charles says fondly, chuckling and dabbing at Kevin’s forehead with a wet towel, and Kevin hisses and bares his teeth at him.

So it turns out he misremembered this. So maybe he _can_ get sick, and just didn’t during the Strex era.  Or didn’t notice it, what with the drugs and all. Great. He’s absolutely certain that the powers that be won’t let him perish from this, not when there isn’t anyone to replace him at the radio station, so what he ought to do according to Charles is lie down and get better.

But while Donovan was, for the most part, a model patient, Kevin is very much not. The concept of rest and relaxation is already inconvenient enough, and in this case, he didn’t even schedule any of it. He has things to do. But all he can do is lie in bed and make disapproving faces at some broth, and feel like he’s ever-so-slowly, physically and mentally, being turned inside out. His throat feels raw, enough so that his voice suffers, not to even mention his Voice. His head pounds whenever he so much as tries to get up, he’s not comfortable even for a moment, and he’s sweating through the sheets, and not even in a sexy way. It’s _nonsense_.

He’s in and out of consciousness for most of the first day of the ordeal, which is disconcerting. This loss of his mental faculties would drive him into a heedless panic, if he were present enough to remember the reason to panic. This being so, all he feels is a bleary sense of wrongness. The passage of time is blurry, and what with the sun in its fixed point in the sky, it gets impossible to tell what time of day it is. Kevin only knows that at one point he wakes up and is entirely fed up with this. Why is he lying down, anyway? Oh yeah, he “has the flu”, allegedly. Probably just some other shit they engineered for some stupid reason. But no, they’re gone, aren’t they? No one is engineering anything. Still, why should having an illness mean forced inactivity? He can’t afford and, more importantly, doesn’t want to stay in bed. There is a job to do.

While church and related community management slid off the priorities list surprisingly easily, there is still the radio show. Someone has to do it. While there are the church elders and assistant pastors to take care of everything else that might come up, there is no one else at the radio station, except perhaps, for a given value of “being”, intern Vanessa, who definitely isn’t going to broadcast anything. Sneaking out of the house and to the station is a tempting thought, but unfortunately not viable. Charles will catch him, and make that worried face he makes. But maybe he can reach the mobile broadcasting equipment…

Yes, this should be easy, Kevin thinks as he gets up, ignoring the sting of pain in his head and the sudden rush of dizziness. For a moment, he teeters, but he stays upright. So far, so good. He can do this. He has survived much worse than this.

There is a quilt on the bed. Kevin takes it and wraps it around himself, hoping it will ease the shivering somewhat. Should he get dressed? No. That sounds exhausting. He’s not leaving the house. Just finding where the mobile... broadcast… thing is.

He pauses for a bout of wet, hacking coughs that threaten to eject his lungs from him, then leaves the bedroom on his errand. Purpose. Yes. This will be easy.

He wakes up on the floor in the living room, with only a very vague idea of why and how he got here, and a concerned face hovering over him. He feels… about eight years old again, the last time he can vaguely recall being in such a state before.

“Adam?” he whispers.

“No, sorry,” Charles says. “Jeez, Kevin. What the hell were you trying to do? Let’s get you back to bed.”

“Need to do the radio,” Kevin mutters in weak dissent as Charles picks him up.

“I’m sure the city won’t implode without you doing the radio show for a few days.” It’s meant to be soothing but well, what does Charles know, actually? Desert Bluffs hasn’t been without a radio host for more than, oh, maybe a week, ever, except for that time just after the hostile takeover of Strex by Night Vale’s angels. And what happened then? The town collapsed. Kevin doesn’t know what would happen now. He has a distinct feeling that he doesn’t want to find out.

“Important,” he insists as Charles lowers him back into the sheets. “Town is like…” He thinks hazy images of pearls, forming around crumbs of dirt. The town conglomerates around its radio host. When he changed dimensions, Desert Bluffs followed him here. With the people came the concept of the town, the community. He said that Desert Bluffs was here, so the community came here. It’s like that. He is too tired and hot and achy to form this thought into words. “…needs the radio. Or else. Bad things. Ugh… I can’t get comfortable.”

“I know, love.” Charles caresses Kevin’s face. His fingers are cool to the touch. “I’ll go and ask around about this, okay? I’ll get this settled. But you have to promise to stay put.”

“Mm… okay.” His energy completely sapped, Kevin doesn’t have any fight left for the moment. He closes his eyes because the room is spinning, and honestly doesn’t even fully know what he’s agreeing to. Merciful unconsciousness already beckons him again.

When he wakes up, he gets the feeling that a substantial amount of time must have passed, and Charles is sleeping in a chair by his bedside. Even in his current state, Kevin can see how rumpled Charles is, the dark circles under his eyes, the limp dejection of his perfect hair. It must be tough, having to nurse Donovan, then Kevin back to health. It’s something approaching a miracle that Charles hasn’t gotten sick himself. Quietly, so very careful to not wake Charles up, Kevin reaches into his nightstand for his phone.

Who can he ask for backup? It would have been his brother, once. Currently, not so much. Adam’s probably waiting with bated breath for the verdict on if he’ll finally die. It could have also been Vanessa, in some bygone time, but she’s a ghost, and Kevin hasn’t ever seen her leave the radio station since the gruesome event of her death, so it’s safe to assume she can’t. Besides, does she even have a phone?

Who’s left? _Carlos_ , his hazy mind supplies. He took that collar off him with his science instruments, he was so patient with the… no. Kevin shakes his head. No. That was _then_. Now is now. There’s only one other person to consider, one woman, one who has conveniently known him since he was a toddler.

“Grandma Josephine? Hi. It’s Kevin. I’m sick. Charles is staying on top of things, but he could probably use a hand here? Sorry for the whispering. He’s asleep.”

Josephine comes over with a thermos full of her special tea. The demons play with Donovan while Charles rests. They are like angels but not, eclipsed suns. Other people appear, most of them from the church, as disjointed moments, some leaving cards and flowers and fresh, clean vertebrae, as is traditional. Offerings on the altar of a prophet, or the reaching hands of friends, Kevin isn’t sure. He doesn’t want to think about it too deeply. He tells Charles to look through the cards for money and if there’s any, to take it and buy aspirin.

The symptoms ebb away eventually. The headache and nausea are first to go, thank goodness, then the coughing and the fever. One day, Kevin takes a shower and comes out of it feeling only mildly sticky and like he’s about to jump out of his skin with the discomfort of it all. He still has to go back to bed weak-legged like a newborn fawn and leaning heavily on Charles but that night, he has genuinely restful sleep for the first time in a week.

As Kevin slowly recovers his energy, Donovan bounces fully back from it all and starts going back to daycare. They’re learning their ABCs, and Donnie sits on Kevin’s legs in the master bedroom practicing: A for apple, B for banana, C for centipede (give praise, o children, to the Smiling God, our almighty devourer that waits below the earth) and so on.

Then there comes a morning when, wonder of wonders, Kevin wakes up fully recovered. The sun is bright (it always is) and he’s full of energy again.

“No really, I feel fantastic,” he tells Charles. (He will feel less fantastic later when he will discover that, in his absence, a couple of concerned citizens took over broadcasting at the radio station, among them, unfortunately, several Citizens for Free Will. It’s touching that they kept the light on, but less touching that they used the airtime to spread some of their subversive anti-propaganda.) “I want to _do_ something. I want to do something _big_.”

“I can think of something,” Charles says with a wink. Charles is extremely silly.

Kevin smiles indulgently. “Sure, that too. But I meant something outside. Something with the whole town. Can we organize a pride parade?”

“We could if you want to.” Charles grins. The whole world seems within reach. “Or you guys could have that church potluck you’re always talking about.”

“The Upcoming Church Potluck?” Kevin frowns. “I’m not sure if we can. I’ve not had any signs or prophetic visions telling me that it is actually upcoming.”

“Surely you can just… do it,” Charles suggests. “You’re in charge here. What consequences could there possibly be to having a potluck?”

Kevin ponders this. Charles is still relatively new to Desert Bluffs, and hasn’t quite internalized the way things are done here yet. Then again, it _is_ just a potluck. A fun occasion to get people together. They could do it out in the open, in the lot behind the church. There could be music, and drinks, and party games… not the lethal kind of party games they had at Strexcorp, but real ones. Fun ones. Everyone could pitch in and bring a dish… no pasta salad whatsoever, though. Maybe Josephine and the demons would bake a pie, like in the old days, and Charles would make quesadilla, and LaShandra Martin, the chef at Vermillion, would bring a platter of assorted lip meats, and Kevin could eat all of that at once. Suddenly he can’t wait.

“Might still be a portent, though,” he mutters under his breath, but very quietly.

Charles kisses his cheek. “Aww. You’re important, too.”


	7. The Imminent Church Potluck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which the dumbest prank to ever happen escalates kind of a lot. what is adam's fucking deal?? [sherlock is garbage and here's why voice] keep watching and maybe you'll find out......
> 
> what i should be doing: find job. what i am doing: post this
> 
> last chapter was all Kevin's POV, this chapter is all Charles. Next chapter will probably be all Kevin again. 
> 
> thank you to all who left a comment, especially yall repeat commenters!! the smiling god will bless you with good vibes and bountiful earthworms. they are coming. they are on their way to you

It looks to be a perfect day, the sun in its usual spot and unobscured by clouds. At the same time, a light breeze is blowing, making the desert heat feel a lot less oppressive. Charles would be surprised by this coincidence, this amazing weather at the very day of the church potluck, but he’s aware that to some extent, radio people control the weather. So he’s just proud of his boyfriend, instead.

Kevin is looking splendid – Charles suspects he bought a new hat for this occasion – and has his brightest non-destructive smile on for everyone. Today, no one wants people dropping senseless or fragile objects exploding from exposure to Kevin’s weaponized smiles. They all take a leisurely walk over to the church, Charles holding Donnie’s hand, his other arm around Kevin’s waist. They’re visibly a family, and Charles can feel his heart swell.

A young woman intercepts them just around the corner from the lot where the potluck is held. Charles has seen her around one or two times. Her name is Stefania, and she’s affiliated with the congregation in some way that escapes him at present. There is a button pinned to her blouse emblazoned with a church symbol. She must be one of the elders, although she’s not particularly old – the name at present just describes a loosely assorted council of people who help organize the church’s affairs.

“Kevin, hey.” She seems a tad nervous. “We’ve gone ahead and started just now.”

It’s a nice way of indirectly telling one’s community leader and prophet that he’s late. Kevin handles it graciously.

“Couldn’t decide on what eyeliner to wear. You know how it is.”

Stefania shrugs.

“Is everyone having fun?” Kevin asks.

“Um.” If anything, Stefania grows more nervous. “I’ve got great news and… not-so-great news.”

“Aw,” Kevin says. “Why would there be anything but great news?”

“The great news is that the buffet is a total success, and there are _plenty_ of wine coolers,” Stefania says.

“You sure know how to butter me up,” Kevin interjects.

“But, um… the Citizens for Free Will offered to pitch in, and… well, we couldn’t send them away, could we? Not after they helped out at the radio station. So, um… they’re providing the music. That’s the… not-so-great news.”

Kevin groans. “That’s terrible news. Has he put on that playlist already? With the 90s pop songs that I hate?”

“Not yet, but I think he’s about to,” Stefania admits, looking appropriately contrite.

Charles looks around between their grave faces. “But that’s not that big of a deal, right? That’s not going to ruin anyone’s day.”

“Just you wait,” Kevin mutters darkly. “My brother would rather hand Lauren a bone saw and submit to Strex Sales Associate Training than let me have any good thing.”

Charles pats Kevin’s hand. “I’m sure that’s a bit over-exaggerated.”

“Trust me, it’s not.”

“I’m sure your brother loves you deep down—”

Kevin gives Charles’s hand one warning squeeze, a silent demand to cut this particular conversation short. “Why don’t we just go and see if the party’s salvageable, hm?”

From what Charles can see, the party is not only salvageable, it is _nice_. The lot behind the church is looking downright festive. The buffet table is piled high with the food and drinks that everyone brought, and people are gathered around it in little groups chatting amiably. A little ways off, where they can’t bump into anything important, some kids have started up a soccer game under the watchful eyes of Grandma Josephine, perennial babysitter. Even Lauren is being permitted to hang around, although decidedly on the fringe of the party – not many people approach her at all.

Charles says hi to a few people he knows, colleagues from the community college and parents of Donnie’s playmates, on his way to the buffet to sample a few dishes there. Donovan is quickly abducted by a boy around his age and drafted into the soccer game. Kevin gets a wine cooler.

It’s beautiful, being out here in the sun and mingling with people, all of whom seem to know Kevin and have at least heard of Charles. Kevin immediately finds himself the center of a group of church people, but he sends them on their way and sidles back to Charles’s side, linking their arms.

“Hi,” he says, tiptoeing to give Charles a kiss.

“Escaped your fans?” Charles says fondly.

“Please don’t call them that.” Switching an easy smile on – the smile of a socialite – Kevin swivels round to face the two men Charles was talking to, both professors from the college. They both flinch. The Desert Bluffs community college has a rather forward-thinking faculty, more than a bit subversive in their teachings and largely unwilling to submit to any church-given statutes. No one is really supervising them, either because Kevin hasn’t taken an interest or because, for his own nebulous reasons, he wants it to be so. These two instructors probably haven’t met Kevin even once. A sudden onslaught of him can be difficult to take, Charles observes amusedly. Kevin’s a powerhouse, and he gets in people’s faces with it. He’s like a tiny sun, power comes off of him in bright, warm waves, as if he’s brimming with an excess of it.

“Introduce me, honey, be so kind.”

Charles raises an eyebrow. “Don’t you just… know?”

Kevin shakes his head. “I don’t keep tabs on _every_ single citizen,” he claims.

“Well, this—” Charles begins to say, but is interrupted when Kevin suddenly raises his hand. He’s looking past Charles’s shoulder at something Charles can’t see.

“Oh no,” Kevin says.

“Oh no?”

“My brother. He knows that we’re here.”

Charles turns around. Indeed, there’s Adam Carlton, all the way over on the other side of the lot. Seeing him and Kevin in one place together, the resemblance is clear to Charles now. They have the same noses, the same chins, the same nice, slender hands, their eyebrows tilt the same way. It’s plain to see that they’re related.

On the other side of the lot there is also a DJ booth, tiny and hastily assembled, not at all impressive compared to the state-of-the-art broadcasting equipment Charles saw at the radio station. It’s basically a Macbook plugged into some loudspeakers on a fold-out table, and behind that table, Adam Carlton looks at Kevin, grins briefly, bends over the laptop and starts typing. Seconds later, the first upbeat bars of Hanson’s MMMbop fill the air. Kevin cringes and veers over to the drinks station to get a second wine cooler. At the table that holds the buffet, he has to pass several huge, suspiciously recently uncovered bowls filled to the brim with pasta salad. Charles shakes his head. This, the music, it’s so petty, so immature. It must have taken a sizeable amount of ingredients, not to mention time, to prepare all this pasta salad. Does Adam Carlton have nothing better to do with his free time?

The party continues, but it perceptibly gets just that tiny bit worse. Charles never really realized or thought in any depth upon how any party can stand and fall with its music selection, but he’s experiencing the phenomenon now. People’s smiles are starting to look a little more strained, their conversations a little more forced. Or maybe it appears like that to Charles, because he’s just attuned to the mood of his boyfriend by now, and that’s steadily worsening. It’s like a tiny cartoonish raincloud is gathering over Kevin’s head. And people mind Kevin. He is the near and far. He is the north star. If Kevin’s in a bad mood, he’ll be sure to share it with everyone else sooner or later.

An hour into this, the party is still going strong, but the apprehension in the air thickens. People subconsciously huddle closer to the buffet table and to one another, grinning nervously and talking in hushed tones to Kevin, whose tiny sun is fast threatening to become a small but devastating nova. Every so often, he glares daggers at Adam, who takes this in with a lofty air of smug Zen. He’s been nursing the same can of beer throughout the day. Kevin’s just about through his sixth wine cooler, and Charles begins to suspect he’ll have to carry him home later before god, the town and Donovan. Only the children, who have moved on from soccer to catch to hide-and-seek, appear untouched by the steadily worsening atmosphere. In the interest of preserving the peace, Charles heads over to the DJ booth.

“Hey, man,” he says. “Is this really necessary?” He has to raise his voice to be heard over the deafening music.

Adam Carlton grins at him. It’s very different from the way Kevin will grin. “No idea what you mean. I offered to play some music to liven up the party, and the guys at the church said yes.”

“Come on.” Charles rolls his eyes. “You’re ruining everybody’s day.”

“Really?” Adam gestures out at the whole of the lot. “There’s folks dancing. A lot of people like the Safety Dance. Just… not Kevin.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.” Charles leans in to catch a glimpse of what is on the laptop’s screen. The playlist Adam has pulled up is entitled “One-Hit-Wonders of the 90s That Kevin Hates”.

“And here I thought he was exaggerating,” Charles says. “Why? This is so _childish_.”

“He knows what he did.” Adam Carlton is still grinning. If he’s bothered by Charles calling his dumb little scheme childish, he doesn’t show it. “It’s mostly payback for what happened at our first anniversary bash at the Rec Center. But also just, you know… on principle.”

Charles doesn’t even want to ask what Kevin did to ruin the Rec Center anniversary. “So you guys have your little sibling rivalry, and the whole town has to grin and bear it.”

“That is not what’s happening.” Adam Carlton crosses his arms. “You know my stance on things. That there is _not_ my brother.”

_But you still know exactly what songs he doesn’t like._ “That’s ridiculous,” Charles says.

“If you knew—”

“Kevin told me everything.” There, Charles thinks, take that.

“Everything? And you’re still around? Wow.” Adam shakes his head. “That’s more telling as to your character than anything, really. I guess freaks of a feather flock together.”

“Look,” Charles says, “step away from that macbook or there will be consequences.”

“Oh yeah? You’re going to give me a stern talking-to during your office hours?”

Charles feels his hands clench into fists. Sure, he’s no fighter. He’s a religious studies teacher. But he can damn well try. “Now listen here—”

“Hey.” Someone comes up from behind and grabs him by the arm. Charles flinches, startled, and whips around, but it’s only Kevin.

“What are you doing?” Kevin asks. “Trying to pick a fight?”

Charles shakes his head as if trying to clear it. “I don’t…”

“I hope you weren’t going to fight in front of Donovan, is all.”

Charles bites his lips, feeling guilty. Kevin is right. What if Donovan had seen? He has to be responsible. He has to set a good example. “You’re right… maybe we should call it a day.”

“Go home? I don’t think so.” Kevin glares at Adam. “Why do you always have to ruin things for everyone?”

“You realize ‘everyone’ isn’t all about you, right?” Adam asks coolly.

This runs off of Kevin like water off a duck. “And _you_ realize that if you persist with all this, I can have you arrested.”

Adam snorts. “On what charge?”

“Oh, you know I can make one up,” Kevin proclaims, that sweet, songbird radio voice only the slightest bit slurred around the edges. There’s a flush sitting high on his cheeks, maybe from anger, more likely the wine he’s had. Okay, Charles thinks, that’s been enough now.

“Maybe we should really…”

Adam’s mouth is a hard, unyielding line when he says, “I invite you to try, Kev.”

Kevin huffs dismissively. “Is that a threat?”

“You go around arresting folks for no reason, that’s crossing a line. I’ve got enough people behind me now willing to defend the interests of the citizens of this town that we… I’m saying, don’t cross that line.”

“Or you’ll do what?”

Adam rounds the table and, in doing so, switches off the music. The Safety Dance blaring across the lot had not made the situation better, but its absence doesn’t either. The sudden silence is startling, and people look round to see why Adam stopped the music. Now there is no obstacle between him and Kevin. They’re almost toe to toe, and Adam looks down his hawkish nose at Kevin.

“For starters, we’ll torch your radio station.”

Kevin jerks back. It’s a barely-contained flinch. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would. Burn your church to cinders, too. See how you’ll do with _just_ your voice. And it doesn’t work on me! It never has, not even when we were kids. How many people do you think would try and stop us? How many people do you think are willing to stick their necks out for you?”

“And what do you mean by that now,” Kevin says snidely, but Charles, well familiar by now with Kevin’s voice in all its beauteous modulations, can hear it: the slight, barely-there hint of insecurity. And he imagines Adam, having been raised alongside Kevin, can hear it too.

This is probably why his voice is almost gentle when he says, “You’re on the wrong side of things, these days. Keeping the community safe, all that stuff you used to do, that’s me now. You just took things from Strex and are using them for yourself. People fear you. People don’t know that you get them, or act in their interest as their leader. You’ve amassed power for power’s sake, you’re some kind of idol people have to appease. That’s what the church… that’s what the whole thing is for, and everyone knows it.”

At first, what Charles feels hearing this is a wave of outrage on behalf of his boyfriend. How dare this guy call Kevin all these horrible things to his face! His sweet boyfriend who is trying so hard! But Charles remembers certain things that have transpired, and he has to admit that Adam… makes some salient points. Unaffiliated as he is with Desert Bluffs’ politics, he has noticed there are people in town who won’t give him the time of day. He knows that there are certain kids whom Donovan isn’t allowed to play with anymore. He remembers that two weeks ago, Donovan came home from daycare crying because some of the children there seemed disdainful or even afraid of him, the stepson of the town’s prophet, something that Donovan does not understand at all, but Charles has been able to put it together.

And what strikes him next is how gently Adam said these things. How there was no rage in his voice anymore, but maybe just the slightest glimmer of something like hope. Even as he claims that his actual brother is dead forever, this man cannot help but hope. Perhaps in a moment such as this, they can bear to be vulnerable, and understanding can be achieved.

What Charles also sees is this: for a second, Kevin wavers. For a second, Kevin almost listens.

And then Adam puts his foot in it.

“I mean, look at you,” he says. “You’re just like father.”

A crash, and glass shards litter the ground. The dregs of Kevin’s seventh wine cooler leave a spreading stain on the soft earth.

“You take that back,” Kevin says.

Adam shakes his head. “In a way, you’re worse,” he says. “In your own unique way. At least old dad only ever tyrannized the two of us.”

All color has drained from Kevin’s face. “Take it _back.”_

“Nope.” Adam crosses his arms. “You know what, weirdly enough, I guess he’d finally be proud of you if he saw you n—”

There is no elegance to the punch, but there is a resounding, satisfying crunch as Kevin’s fist finds Adam’s jaw.

Adam reels for a second. Then, finally of one mind about what actions the immediate future should contain, both of them simultaneously lunge at each other.

“Hey-!” Charles yells, not sure how to intervene with the spitting, flailing blur of limbs and rage that ensues. It looks like Adam’s trying to yank Kevin back by the hair, while Kevin is attempting to bite—

“Can someone help me separate them?” No one moves, out of fear or awe or self-preservation, Charles can’t say. Only Grandma Josephine, elderly as she no doubt is, approaches as fast as she can, two Eriks at her heels.

“You stop that!” She is waving her cane, trying to get it in between the fighting pair, to no avail. “I raised you both better than this!”

Charles reaches out for her. He’s sure Kevin can handle himself, but he’d rather not see a frail old lady endangered. “Josephine, maybe you should step back…”

The Eriks grab Adam by his arms, and when a ten-foot-tall, radiant, hornéd being takes hold of your upper arms, you tend to stay put. Charles manages to get a hold of Kevin’s shoulder before he can lunge again or, worse, get his knife out. His nose is bloody, and Adam is sporting some deep scratches down the right side of his face.

“What was that about not fighting in front of Donnie?” Charles whispers near Kevin’s ear.

Kevin quietens at once and turns his head to face Charles, eyeless sockets wide as mortification dawns. “Oh, no.”

Meanwhile, Adam is struggling to escape the painless, but disquietingly steady grip of the Eriks. His determination to escape, to keep on fighting, causes something in Charles to snap. “Give it up! What on earth is your problem? Can’t we all just stop?”

Adam stops struggling. He fixes Charles with a still, cold gaze.

“They killed my son,” he says.

It cuts through Charles from the brain down. It severs his heart, his lungs and lands in his stomach, spreading there.

Where there was fiery anger in him, there is now only ice.

“They couldn’t _‘fix’_ him. Couldn’t make him ‘ _perfect’._ So one day they came and… a squadron of their drones, they came and…” Adam started out with venom. By the end of the sentence, he is deathly solemn. “That’s why I’ve been trying to warn you. Thought you might want to reconsider some things.”

Charles realizes that Adam’s addressing _him_.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Kevin _adores_ Donnie,” he also says, because that is the truth.

“Sure,” Adam says. “He starts school soon, right? What if he struggles with a subject? Doesn’t get straight As? What if it turns out he has a learning disability? What if he makes trouble? What if he’s anything other than a perfect little smiling puppet? What then, huh? Is his _eminence_ gonna adore him then?”

_“Yes,”_ Charles insists. He doesn’t allow himself to doubt.

“I had no idea,” Kevin says, very quietly. “No one ever told me. Why did no one tell me? About little… Jamie, was it?”

“Jeremy,” Adam snaps.

Under his hand, Charles feels Kevin tremble. “When did that… was I there? I don’t remember any… did I…?”

Those gaps in Kevin’s memory must be so treacherous to him, Charles thinks. Did Kevin have a hand in the death of his nephew? Kevin doesn’t _know_.

“You weren’t _there_ ,” Adam says through gritted teeth, fists clenched at his sides. “It happened when you were missing. Nothing on the radio, one knew where you went. And it happened, and you came back two weeks later, with that book under your arm, saying you’re a prophet now, and we all just had to accept that, and congratu-fucking-lations. And if you’d been there…”

“If I’d been there, I would’ve done something.” Now Kevin’s voice is also trembling.

“Would you? What would you have done? Tried to stop them? Why? Oh, was there something _different_ about Jeremy? Something _worthier_ of preserving than all the other people they had you cull? Or would you have done nothing? Stood by? Joined in? Would you have smiled? Tell me, would you have _smiled?”_ Adam takes a deep breath, as if to calm himself. “I don’t know,” he concludes, “You don’t know either. All I know is that you weren’t there.”

“It’s not like I was—” Kevin attempts to speak up, but Adam cuts him off with a gesture. The Voice of Desert Bluffs, abruptly silenced.

“And then you had your own church, good for you. And you were management, you and Lauren Mallard. But that didn’t make anything better for any of us normal people, and it didn’t bring my son back, and you know how I felt about that?”

“Bad…?” Kevin ventures. His voice is quivering, incomparable to the sound that everyone in town hears daily on the radio.

“No. I felt nothing. Nothing! A dozen Strex drones broke my door down and carried my son away and I felt nothing. I felt happy! The way we all felt happy, because we couldn’t feel anything else. And then suddenly it was all over, the shock collars, the drugs, the work, everything. And no one knew what the hell to do. Everyone was running around like a bunch of headless chickens. And we couldn’t stay in our old town, and in Night Vale the police started rounding us all up, and there was word that there was a new place for us out here in this Desert Otherworld. And I thought… I thought maybe out here, I’d get to see at least one member of my family again. But I got here, and what I found was still just _you.”_

Kevin’s shoulders are quaking by now. He’s making those awful little gasping, wheezing sounds that, Charles has learned, signify that his body wants to sob but cannot. “Hey now,” Charles mutters, “hey now” as he reaches a hand around and rubs Kevin’s chest in calm, soothing strokes. He’ll cut off his air supply if he goes on like that.

“And it’s still the same with you!” Adam continues. “Telling everyone to smile and never think about anything too much. Well, I refuse. I refuse to smile and be happy. The normal reaction to tragic events is grief! So I’ll feel that, I’ll hold on to that, it doesn’t matter what you think of me, I am unhappy! I am angry, I am bitter, and those are my feelings. Mine! And no one gets to take them anymore. What do I have to smile about? This place is still broken, my son is dead, my wife…” And here Adam, too, wavers. “My wife had to leave because they were coming for her too, she said she was going to follow the dotted lines and arrows in the sky hoping they would lead to safety, and I haven’t heard from her, and I don’t know if she made it out, and I don’t know… where she is. I don’t know where she _is_ , Kevin.”

And with that, Adam falls silent. He stands alone, the Eriks having stepped back from him about ten anguished sentences ago. He looks very lonesome like this, one hand pressed up to his eyes, tears spilling out from under it. Kevin is bent double, breathing like there is a slide whistle stuck in his windpipe, and Charles can do nothing but rub his back and shush him, hoping it will all subside soon. The space between the brothers, nothing but a patch of downtrodden sand, seems several miles wide.

The town stands still and watches two of their most prominent public figures, vulnerable. No one moves.

“I should take you home,” Charles murmurs, eventually. “You two can have the rest of this talk at some point that isn’t… this.”

Kevin takes a shuddering breath. “Yes… told you it was a mistake to have the potluck.”

“Okay.” Charles is unsure if today’s disaster can or should be attributed to a divine source, but he lets Kevin have this. He wraps an arm around Kevin, wanting for a moment to shield him from the world. They just stand there for a minute, Kevin with his face buried in Charles’s shirt.

When he feels that Kevin’s breathing has calmed somewhat, Charles takes a careful half-step back. “Why don’t you sit with Josephine while I get Donnie, hm? I won’t be long.” The crowd has dispersed again, people are trying to act normal, like there wasn’t this bizarre confrontation just now in the middle of the lot, like they didn’t see one of their foremost political activists fight with their untouchable prophet and then yell at him for ten solid minutes. A few people whom Charles thinks he recognizes as Citizens for Free Will are gathered around Adam; Charles can hear their lowered voices. He cranes his head and even gets on his tiptoes hoping to spot Donovan among all the people. He hopes Donnie didn’t see too much of this, that maybe he was too absorbed in playing games with his friends to notice the ugly fight that just took place.

“Josephine?” he asks. “Where’s Donovan? You had him last, right?”

Grandma Josephine is bent over Kevin, making him drink a glass of water. Did she really say she raised him? She now looks up. “Of course,” she says, “I left him with Erik when the fighting started.”

Charles at first can’t see any Eriks, but then he spots four of them, at the farthest end of the lot, their wings fanning gently in the breeze. They’re gathered around… something.

And Charles can feel that something is wrong. He speeds up as he walks across the lot towards the Eriks, and barely even notices Kevin shaking Josephine off and falling in behind him.

Amidst the circle formed by the four Eriks is a fifth Erik, prone on the ground, dark ichor seeping from its chest. A knife has been discarded nearby.

“That’s Lauren’s,” Kevin says.

His phone vibrates. Slowly, as if in a trance, Kevin reaches into his pocket and unlocks it. Charles catches sight of Lauren’s name on the text alert.

Donovan is gone.


	8. On the Warpath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oof. this update took way longer than expected! i got a new job, got depressed about the job, got sick, got into 3 different other fandoms,... life, y'know?  
> well, i hope you'll enjoy this nonetheless. i'll try not to take so long with the next chapter!

The worst thing is how sickly sweet Lauren’s text still reads.

 _Hi, Kevin,_ it says. _I have availed myself of your boyfriend’s son. He is doing fine and will not come to harm, especially not if my requests are met. I will be exchanging him for a net sum of—_

People have gathered around them by now, drawn inevitably to the hot new tragedy on the block. “That’s a very high six figures,” Adam says, reading over Kevin’s shoulder. Kevin turns around, slowly, to face him, his every movement feeling like the way one moves when caught in some revolting nightmare. Disaffectedly, he registers that his brother’s eyes are puffy and red-rimmed from crying, but that he seems to have rallied alright for the most part in every other aspect.

“This is all the treasury has right now, isn’t it?” Adam goes on to remark.

Despite everything, Kevin can’t help but notice how, “You’re very familiar with the contents of my treasury.”

“ _Your_ treasury.” Adam snorts. “Of course I am. I represent citizen interests in this town. If _someone_ were to abuse the treasury to expand their shoe closet, I would want to be in the know.”

Kevin bristles. “My _shoe closet?_ Don’t be homophobic.”

“Well, look me in the eyes and tell me truthfully that you don’t have a shoe closet at your home.”

“Of course I—”

“Guys,” Charles says, “Can we… please…? My son has been kidnapped. Just… please? Okay?” Charles is gray-faced, staring into nothing, arms wrapped around himself. It crushes Kevin to see him like this.

“Yes. Sorry.” He grasps Charles by the arm. “Look at me. Charles? She can’t have gone far. We’ll have Donnie back before you know it.”

Charles buries his head in his hands. “Oh god. Oh god.”

“I know.”

“Why didn’t I watch him? I should have watched him!”

“There was a lot going on all over the place. Lauren must have taken advantage of the confusion to get the drop on Erik.” Kevin knows that Lauren’s not actually a good fighter, in the way a CEO will rarely be seen working in their factories, commanding their own death squads or personally busting unions. In the old Desert Bluffs, she was the only person without blood on her. Lauren rarely got her hands dirty. That’s what Kevin was for. If Lauren took down a demon, it was most likely one very distracted demon.

“Maybe she’s holed up in her apartment.” Kevin beckons to the church-affiliated people present, who crowd around him. “I want everything searched. Everywhere she could have gone, anywhere she might have friends left. Put every street under constant watch. Keon and Kelton, pick five people you can trust and head to Lauren’s apartment. Do this _now_.”

“Hey.” Adam taps on Kevin’s shoulder. “Can I help?”

Kevin brushes his hand off. “You go away.”

“I’m sure I can drum up some people to help you look. I was a dad too, once, you know.”

“You need to learn that it’s not all about you,” Kevin snipes.

“Let him help.” Charles, his arms still wrapped around himself like he is deathly cold in this hot desert afternoon, looks at them both with the eyes of a man caught in a waking nightmare. “If there’s anything his guys can do, then please… please. Anything… at all.”

“Granted.” The politics of the situation, the fight that just occurred, it all must take a step back. Kevin turns his attention fully to Charles. “Maybe you should go home. You look horrible.” Funny, how their places were reversed no ten minutes ago.

“No, I want to join the search,” Charles says.

“You honestly—”

Charles grabs his arm, not in a commanding way, but like a drowning person clutching their only lifeline. “Kevin. _I need to find my son.”_

There is so much raw emotion in these few simple words that Kevin trembles. “I know. Me too. And we will.”

Charles nods. Takes a deep breath. Straightens his back and squares his shoulders. _“Okay.”_

Kevin knows this ‘okay’. He remembers when there was just himself here, himself and some vacant, pointless buildings in the desert, Carlos having left, the masked army having moved on to their next war. Only then had he realized just how badly everything had crashed down around him.

And he remembers an untold number of months later, when suddenly there was a human voice again, calling out his name, blocking out the sunlight, looking down upon him hunched in the sand where he had been foraging for rodents, lizards, bugs, worms, anything to stave off starvation a little while longer. He remembers grasping for some fleeing critter, bashing its head against a rock until it stopped twitching and cramming it whole into his mouth, blood running down his chin, the metallic tang of it on his tongue. And then Grandma Josephine’s outstretched hand, her voice explaining she had come with some people who had heard there was a town here for them to settle in. Then she had helped him up and turned him in the direction of the town, the town that was suddenly filling with people again, people who wandered among the empty buildings looking lost, looking unsure what to do here, where to begin. People wanting for leadership.

And Kevin had brushed the sand off his clothes, wiped his mouth and said, _“Okay.”_

This type of ‘okay’ means ‘let’s restart’. It means ‘time to get control of this situation back’. It means ‘time to go see what we can salvage’.

Within minutes, they have people out searching the whole town. Charles, pale but determined, joins one of the search teams, while Kevin relocates to the center of town and casts out his sight, trying to look everywhere at once.

Only now, as he is alone, he allows the situation to touch him. Lauren has Donovan. Truly, Kevin thinks, not for the first time, he should have killed her when he had the chance. What stayed his hand then? Well, whatever it was, she paid him back by kidnapping his son. People like Lauren just don’t know how to be human.

It’s straining, looking everywhere at once, and the strain causes Kevin’s sockets to leak. He knows it’s not tears; he still doesn’t have tears. No matter. He wipes the blood off and continues.

One of the search teams crosses town square, both Charles and Adam among them. Kevin tries giving Charles a reassuring smile, but it probably doesn’t look too good with blood smeared across his face. Before he can do anything about that, however, someone calls his name from another direction. Kevin turns to see Laurence Levine, who lives out on the edge of town. Laurence doesn’t usually participate in a lot of town-wide activities, so Kevin is surprised to see him mixed up in all this.

“Laurence, hi,” he says. “I don’t really have time to discuss your pottery exhibit right now, but maybe if you come around next week…”

“Heard you’re looking for that Mallard woman,” Laurence says, a bit out of breath. “I just saw her car leave town. She was just driving out into the desert? Seemed odd to me.”

“She _left town?”_ Kevin exclaims, incredulous. As if on cue, his phone vibrates again with another incoming text.

 _You sure have everyone all stirred up!_ It reads. _This simply won’t do. Call or text me when you see sense! We can discuss you meeting my request then._

Charles is now making his way over to Kevin’s side and interestingly, Adam is trailing him. “Lauren’s apartment was empty,” Charles announces.

“To be sure. Laurence here says he saw her leave town.”

Adam scratches his head. “Well, she won’t get far. There’s no roads out there.” He’s right; only the one freeway connects Desert Bluffs Too to the rest of the world, and it’s in the opposite direction to Laurence Levine’s house.

Kevin shows everyone the text message he received. Charles, pale but up until now determined, sags completely, running his hands across his face. It comes out as a tinny whimper when he asks, “Well, what do we do now?”

Kevin shrugs uncertainly. “We give… her… the money?”

“No,” Adam says.

“Listen here, I don’t have time for your political—”

“No, but we can’t give in to her like that! We have to come up with some sort of plan! What do you think she’d use that amount of money for, huh?”

Kevin looks at his brother. His presence is annoying as ever, especially now, but he is right. “Strex again?”

Adam nods.

They rarely agree on anything, but they certainly both don’t want Strex again.

“Look,” Kevin says. “This is my mess. Can you get everyone home?” He tilts his head ever-so-slightly in Charles’s direction, to signalize to Adam that by everyone he means Charles especially. Kevin is certain that Charles would go to the ends of the world if necessary to bring Donovan back home, but where Kevin’s about to go, Charles cannot – should not – follow.

“What are you going to do?” Adam asks.

“I’m taking care of this.”

“You’re going after her?”

Kevin nods.

“There’s a lot of desert out there.”

“I’m not worried about that.” Kevin musters a half-grin as he taps underneath his eyeless socket. “I generally see more things than most.”

A part of Kevin wants to go home. Go home and comfort Charles, embrace him and draw him close and wipe away his tears. Charles needs a steady and supportive presence by his side now. But what Charles needs above all is someone to bring his son home, so Kevin tears himself away and walks the few blocks to the radio station alone.

He has reached the building and is unlocking the front door when suddenly the weight of the situation hits with the force of a sledgehammer. _Lauren has Donovan._ Donovan who didn’t ever ask for any of this, and who is five. How scared he must be right now!

And Kevin remembers how one day, only a little over three weeks ago, he took Donovan with him to the station as he did the radio show, because Donnie wouldn’t stop asking for this. And he’d let him sit on his lap and press the button for the weather and say the ending catchphrase into the mic and by the end of the broadcast, Donnie had looked up at him and said that when he grew up, he wanted to be a radio person too. And Kevin had ruffled his hair and told him sure, he could. Maybe he could even do this very show one day. And privately he had thought how nice it would be to one day train a successor, to have there be a time when he would not work at all anymore. And besides that, mainly, he had been glowing with warmth and light, because his son liked what he did.

And Kevin falters. His hand falls away from the doorknob. Next thing he knows, he’s on his knees, head bent, hands scrabbling at his already raw throat. This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening. Not Donovan. Please, Smiling God please, anything, anything, but not Donovan. (It is a prayer that comes too late.) Not his little ray of sunshine in the clutches of that beast.

And what will she be doing to him? Kevin abruptly recalls the vague, barely-there memory of a nephew he had at some point. _Strex: Kill Your Imperfect Self…_

No.

He strides into the radio station with purpose, all straight back and clenched fists and a smile on his face that would send people running if anyone saw it. He ignores the recording booth and enters the break room that is never used by anyone seeing as no one but Kevin and arguably Vanessa works here now, and Kevin usually just takes his breaks at home. The room is dusty, the air stale: a shrine, more than anything else, to the memory of what Desert Bluffs Community Radio used to be. Back when there were interns, technicians, sales staff, and a variety of radio hosts putting on different shows at different times of the day. There is a vending machine that’s not plugged into anything and holds no comestibles. A water fountain with no water. Chairs on which no one ever sits. Even the same old posters on the wall, announcing shows that haven’t aired in decades (that have been banned for decades, deemed unproductive), trite motivational quotes, even an old resist-Strex-slogan from way back when. Blood has never speckled these walls. The Smiling God has no part in this shrine.

At the back of the room is another door, which leads into a storage closet. Kevin unlocks the storage closet, the Double Storage Closet, the Arcane Storage Closet, and finally a safe, and there it is, his collection. He locked all this away the day it turned out having weaponry around his home would be an unwise parenting decision. While kitchen knives are fine as long as they’re kept in a locked drawer where Donovan can’t get at them, these different ones, that were once used to slash and gut and rend and snap the subtle thread of human life, Kevin felt he had no business storing in the vicinity of a kid.

Arming himself is muscle memory. Two bowie knives go onto his belt, the smaller ones for throwing onto their bandolier across his chest. The stiletto blades slide up his sleeves and into his boots. The machete gets strapped onto his back, because you never know, out in the desert. The electrical rod that he was issued as part of his introduction to Strex Management… that he should have thrown away a long time ago. It stays in the safe for now. He scratched all the Strex logos off the hilts a while ago but funny, really, that he’s going up against Lauren with the weapons she gave him.

Kevin performs the various little rituals that are necessary to close all the storeroom doors, and as he is still wondering if he should make one last detour home to check on Charles, he suddenly notices that he’s no longer alone. Spinning around, he comes face to face with Adam, who seems to have just let himself in and is now scrutinizing the break room.

“Wow,” he says, his voice straining to sound casual. “This looks just like the old station. Is that on purpose?”

Kevin smiles at his brother. Well. Kevin exposes his teeth at his brother. “You shouldn’t be in here.”

Adam ignores that. “That’s a shitload of knives.”

Kevin neatly sidesteps him and heads for the door. Time is wasting.

“Kev.”

“…in. It’s Kev _in.”_

“You’re really going out alone? Take me with you.”

It actually gives Kevin enough pause to turn his head. “Why would I want to have you with me?”

Adam stares at him belligerently. He still has his eyes, lucky him. They’re light brown. Maybe Kevin’s eyes were also once light brown. “Why do you get to go by yourself? Only you get to kick Strexcorp ass, how is that fair? We all have grievances. We all—”

“Well, _my_ child has been kidnapped.”

Adam snaps his mouth shut.

“You want to accuse me of selfishness, you’re free to speak your mind. Desert Bluffs is a _free_ community.” Kevin turns back towards the door. Out of the breakroom. Past the sound booth. Down the hallway and into the sunshine. “But you also should remember that life doesn’t revolve around your revenge fantasies… any more than it does around my church. I’m getting my son back from Lauren, and that’s all there is to it.”

He starts walking. He doesn’t bother to lock up the station. He’s headed in the direction of Laurence Levine’s house, on the edge of town, and from there on out into the empty desert. The wind will already have wiped away any tracks that Lauren’s car left. Finding her might be tricky, even with the Sight.

“Your son,” his brother’s voice says in his back.

Kevin doesn’t react. The streets are quiet, and what few people there are duck out of his way. Of course they do: he’s bristling with knives, he hasn’t found the time to properly wipe the dried blood off his face, and his facial expression, whatever it is, must be a sight to behold.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” the voice comes again.

“Don’t get in my way,” Kevin says. “Maybe keep an eye on Charles. He needs someone.”

One last time, on the outskirts of town, Kevin pauses and looks back. “Oh, and, Adam? You’re not immune to my voice. Nobody is.”

It’s been a very, very long day, and it shows no sign of stopping anytime soon. But the baffled look on Adam’s face raises Kevin’s mood a little.

“What?” he asks. “But you never…”

“But I could have. I never used my voice on you because you are my brother.” Kevin waves over his shoulder. “Goodbye for now.”

* * *

 

The desert is vast. The desert is empty. The desert stretches on for countless miles.

Kevin knows that they’re the only settlement in this dimension; there is no one here apart from them, save for some nomadic giant warrior tribes. What has driven Lauren out into the nothingness? What does she think she’s doing with Donovan out there?

Not looking back, Kevin begins to walk. The air is hot, the sand is sweltering. By the time he’s out of sight of the town, he can feel sweat running into his collar. By the time he’s out of Sight of the town, he can feel his feet dragging. But this is fine. This is part of the plan, the reason why he, not anyone else, had to be out here. Exhaustion will serve him.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been walking, across dunes, towards the sun, always towards the sun in its fixed position. Must have been hours. The sun doesn’t set here. The sun, this divine radiance, sends its unremitting rays down onto this hot, _hot_ desert at all hours of the day. What, actually are hours? What is a day? There is only light.

Sweat was running into Kevin’s eye-sockets before, a truly nasty feeling. He’s not sweating anymore. This is a sign that he hasn’t got any liquid left to sweat. Somewhere within the sluggish, murky pool that his mind has turned into, he registers this with triumph. He didn’t take any water out here. He didn’t have any water with him the first time around. Everything is as it should be.

Then comes a point at which his body can walk no more. He can endure a lot of privation, since his Strex makeover, but there is a limit to everything. He slips and falls onto his knees, then his face, too, hits the sand. It feels a lot less soft than a non-desert-dweller might imagine sand to feel.

 _This is completely ridiculous,_ Kevin-from-the-past chirps. _Why are you doing this? You’re wasting time. Go back to town and organize a proper search. You know as well as I do that if there’s anything out there, you cannot rely on it._

Kevin-from-the-present tunes him out. This is not the voice he wants to hear right now.

_Smiling God, hear me._

_Smiling God, grant me your blessing._

He’s as near a trance state as he’s going to get. This is going to work.

_O gracious Smiling God, who knows all,_

_Who deems us worthy of devouring,_

_Give me your unremitting perseverance._

_Smiling God, you have always been there._

_Grant me your sight, that I may see._

_Grant me your strength, that I may pursue._

There is a faint hum in the air, a faint tremor beneath the ground.

Maybe he’s hallucinating it.

He is so very thirsty.

There is nothing now, no sand, not the blue sky.

There’s only light.

_Smiling God, I made you._

_I gave you a church._

_In the minds of the people, I gave you a form._

_You remember this desert. You remember this voice._

_Smiling God, I’m calling in a favor._

The tremor beneath the earth increases. The humming is so strong now, it rattles Kevin’s teeth. For a moment – a second, an hour, an eternity – he is a live wire again, a vessel, nothing more, the presence of the Smiling God threatening to shake him apart.

Then he comes to, gasping, on the sand, sweat streaming into his sockets again. He still feels the rumbling underneath the earth, like something large, something living, passing him by down there. The sand is disturbed, shaken up by the burrowing creature, and then it leaves – not vanishing all at once, it moves, gradually, to the southeast. He looks to the horizon and there it is, like a compass needle: not the sun, but another, brighter, guiding light. The creature’s showing him the way.

Grinning in wild exultation, Kevin gets to his feet and follows, his energy suddenly replenished.

On he goes, up the dunes and down the dunes and in between the dunes, always following the compass-light, mindful of the burrowing creature up ahead. This preoccupies his sight for so long that he notices rather belatedly that he’s coming upon a settlement, out here in the desert. It’s odd: Kevin hadn’t thought there was a settlement out here other than Desert Bluffs Too.

At first he sees the smoke: little wisps against the empty sky, as caused by chimneys or fireplaces. The settlement itself, nestled in between some craggy rock formation, appears at first as a dark smudge amidst the sand, until Kevin hones his vision in on it. It seems, in fact, to be a campsite, a tent city. There is movement among the tents, people and animals, and several large cooking fires. Who are these people? Why is he being led here? Will he find Lauren here?

As Kevin carefully approaches, the tents, fireplaces, people and animals grow larger within his vision. And larger… and larger… the people are up to eight feet tall now. Now they’re coming up to twelve. They are wearing wooden masks, polished and painted to evoke an image of ferocious warriors, grimacing exaggeratedly and covered in war paint. Of course. This is a camp of the nomadic masked giants that Kevin, then accompanied by Carlos, has met once before. There’s a familiar symbol on their tabards, and depicted on their shields and flags fluttering high above the campsite. This is… oh, he should be so lucky. The Smiling God is truly smiling upon him. This is Doug and Alicia’s tribe.

Kevin foregoes cover and skids down the dunes. “Doug! Alicia!”

No ten minutes later, the guards around the campsite have called Doug, and Kevin is being lifted eight feet up on the palm of Doug’s hand for his perusal.

“It’s you again,” Doug says. “The little unhinged one.”

“Yes, thank you,” Kevin replies. He has had plenty of interactions with the masked giants when they were staying in the area of Desert Bluffs Too, but being lifted up by one like this is still slightly awe-inspiring.

“Our scouts report continued movement at your town,” Doug says. “How’s life been treating you? Have you finally become the seer of your little enclave?”

Kevin smiles. “In a way.”

Doug nods. “Good.”

“Listen. Doug? I’m out here looking for a woman. About my size? She might have come through here, it’s… pretty important.”

To Kevin’s considerable surprise, Doug nods. He exchanges a pointed look with Alicia, who nods also. “Yes, the Mallard woman,” Alicia says.

“You guys know Lauren?”

“She’s been through here several times,” Alicia confirms, “attempting to seek allies to rebuild what she’d lost. We told her we weren’t interested.”

“You guys are grand.” Kevin grins up at their masked faces, but beyond that, he is quite displeased. He really can’t let Lauren out of his sight for even a moment, can he?

“Unfortunately she started talking to one of our rival tribes.” Doug shrugs. “Not sure what she has to offer them, but they’ve gone into negotiations.”

Kevin feels his smile strain a little. “Hmm. Bad!”

“Are you pursuing her for that reason?” Doug asks.

“I didn’t know about this! She has actually also kidnapped my son, that’s why I’m looking for her.”

Doug uses the index finger of his free hand to pat Kevin’s head. It momentarily knocks him over. “You sure have been productive, little unhinged one.”

Getting back up on his feet, Kevin figures Doug’s congratulating him for procreating. He’s too preoccupied to correct this misapprehension. “So do you have any idea where I can find Lauren now?”

Alicia kneels down and starts to draw lines in the sand, resulting in an approximate map. “See here, there is this crest of little hills. Glorified rocks, really, but the Mallard woman will have to drive around them in her car. Our scouts reported she was visibly struggling to drive on the sand at all. You can pass straight over that rock formation and catch her there.” Alicia cocks their head; Kevin wonders what they’re worried about. “Maybe she’ll have warriors from our rival tribe with her. You still remember what you learned with us, don’t you? Maybe you’ll need it.”

Kevin nods, but tendrils of worry start to creep up on him. He used to spar with Doug and Alicia, back when it was just them and him and Carlos out here, out of boredom, out of a need to quell the bloodlust that had been so much more incessant in him then, out of a sheer bloody-minded desire to find out if there were ways for him to fight and defeat someone more than twice his size. He knows he can, now. But there weren’t many sparring partners to be had lately in Desert Bluffs Too, and maybe he’s gotten a bit rusty in the meantime. More worrisome than all of that, really, is that whatever’s going to happen once Kevin runs into Lauren, Donovan will see it.

They give him water before he leaves, in a thimble that Alicia’s friend Shana wears on her pinky when she sews. Placed on the ground in front of Kevin, to him it is a hefty bucket that comes up to his knees. He drinks from it, and splashes his face with what remains.

“Oh, besides,” Doug remarks, “If you have time to stop by again later, I’m told that Jonah and Phil are still up if you’d want to…?”

Peering past Doug’s shoulder (he has to tiptoe a bit) Kevin spots two masked warriors hanging around and trying in vain to blend into the background. Catching his gaze, one of them waves hopefully.

“I’m flattered, boys, but no, Doug,” Kevin declines with a little wave of his own. “I’m a _family_ man now.”

* * *

 

The crest of rocks is familiar: Kevin has seen it in a vision once. All the little parts of it seem to come together now: the punch to the jaw (Adam’s) these rocks and the sweat, again, dripping into his eyes. He will be on time. Beyond these hills, Lauren… _Donovan_ will be found.

It’s like a terrible abyss of pure, black want opens up in Kevin’s chest. Because his son has been taken. Because Charles and Kevin cannot go on without Donovan there. Because the desert would turn cold, the sun would plummet from the sky, and there would be no more smiles, for anyone, ever again, if the world ceased to have Donovan in it.

Oh, there will be vengeance for this.

Up on the ridge, Kevin wanders, willing himself to be patient, from rocky outcropping to rocky outcropping, hidden from view below but perfectly able to view anything himself. Eventually, his Sight picks out a dark, unmoving spot against the desert sand and silently, he creeps closer.

The new dark thing turns out to be a little tableau, two warriors, towering like Alicia and Doug, assembled around Lauren’s tacky little town car. It is unmoving, the hood popped open; it seems that the roadless desert wasn’t all that good to drive on after all. Lauren is there peering into the hood, an instruction manual open in her hands. Her twinset and heels are as impractical as her car out here in the sand, and she seems out of her depth. And there is Donovan, in the backseat, his little hands taped together in front of him, more black tape covering his mouth. Oh, Kevin had not known that he could be so _livid_.

Down below him, Lauren puts her hands on her hips. “Will anyone from your tribe be by to pick us up from here?” she demands of the two masked warriors. There is a bit of a strain in her chipper voice. “Only, I seem to remember I _was_ promised an escort!”

The masked giants look at each other, then one of them shrugs. “This is not the designated meeting point,” one of them says. “It’s not our fault you stopped here.”

“What makes you think our leader Jared will give you our support in exchange for that boy?” the other one asks.

Lauren gestures at Donovan in the backseat, who glares at her. “That boy is the son of the Smiling God’s foremost prophet,” she says. “According to my sources, he’s already more prophetic than his dad. But most importantly, that boy is worth a ton of ransom money.”

The two warriors stare at her, their eyes cold and hard beneath their masks. “Our currency is based on sand,” one of them says.

Negotiations don’t seem to be going ideally for Lauren. Kevin decides he’s done concerning himself with this, draws his machete and launches himself at one of the warriors.

 _Smiling God_ , he thinks just before the launch, _you’ve given me your perseverance, your endurance and strength. Now give me your rage, and your ferocity that devours, that I may win this._

Nothing?

Hm.

Seems like it will be just himself then.

He lands on the masked giant’s shoulder, the downward arch of his machete adorning them with a beauteous red throat-smile. He has to press hard to rend the thick skin. Blood gushes, a lot of it onto Kevin. As the first warrior sways and topples, hands coming up futilely to cover their throat, Kevin pivots off them onto the second one.

He collides with the second warrior’s side, the collision knocking the air out of him. He grabs onto the cloth of the warrior’s robe with his one free hand, holding on for dear life. In one fluid movement, he jams the machete into his mouth, the handle gripped between his teeth, and unsheathes a smaller knife as he hangs there precariously. The giant’s hand moves closer, no doubt to bat him off like an insect, and Kevin uses this opportunity to jump ship onto the wrist. He hooks the knife into the flesh of the giant’s forearm and hoists himself higher.

As he had hoped, the arm comes up, attempting to flail him off. As he’s level with the giant’s face, Kevin lets go, gets a firm, two handed grip on the machete again and leaps towards the eye-hole in the giant’s mask.

The blade sluices deep into the eyeball, spraying Kevin with unspeakable substances. The giant groans and topples, Kevin hanging on to the machete as he topples with them. Downward they go as the giant hits the sand, writhing pitifully in their death throes, and Kevin rolls himself off, sticks a three-point landing and is now facing Lauren.

Lauren is hauling Donovan out of the car none-too-gently, he stumbles and only just manages to catch himself on his hands. Kevin starts towards him but Lauren lifts Donovan up by the collar of his t-shirt and presses a knife to his throat. “Don’t come any closer, Kevin.”

Kevin stays put. His grip on his knives is white-knuckled.

“You know, that was very impressive just now,” Lauren says. “I’m glad you got it all out of your system! But try any of that with me, and you know your little boy will unfortunately get it.”

“And then you still die.” Kevin hates being so rooted to the spot by his fear. And yes, he is afraid. “Give up, Lauren. You’re alone here. There’s nothing here for you to gain.”

 _Really,_ he wants to say, _cut the boy’s throat and then what? Then you’re alone with me out here. A dead child? Do you think that would stop me? Do you think there wouldn’t be vengeance for this? Do you think I wouldn’t slit you open and eat your heart?_ He would say that, if Donovan weren’t standing right there, young and impressionable. Say one wrong thing to them and it messes them up for life. That’s why they call it the formative years.

“Oh, you think so?” Lauren says. “I’ve got their entire tribe on my side.” She indicates the fallen warriors. “They will be here soon, and you can’t fight them all.”

Kevin shakes his head, almost inclined to pity. “I heard them earlier. No one’s coming for you, Lauren. Just me.”

Lauren doesn’t let go of Donovan or the knife, but Kevin thinks that maybe he can spot a slight tremor in her knife hand.

“Donnie, could you cover your ears please?” he asks. “Daddy and Lauren need to have adult words.”

Donovan looks up at him and shakes his head and that’s when Kevin sees that Donovan has something in his cupped hands.

_What do you have?_

_Shh, daddy,_ he hears. But that’s impossible, isn’t it? Donovan’s still gagged. But there his voice is, right in Kevin’s mind.

Then suddenly, quick as anything, Donovan reaches up and dumps whatever he has down Lauren’s collar.

Lauren lets out a little shriek. “Aaahh! It’s – it’s a centipede! You little—” She bats at her chest trying to get rid of the squirming bug within her shirt, and for a moment, her grip on Donovan loosens.

Donnie scratches his nails across her wrist, her grip loosens further, and he wriggles himself free and darts behind the car.

“That’s my kiddo.” Kevin grins.

Within seconds, he’s got Lauren cornered against the car and twists her wrist until she drops the knife. He kicks it out of reach. Lauren was never actually a fighter. She employed people who fought for her. Specifically, she had once employed Kevin.

“So, Lauren.” Kevin grins even wider. “What shall we do with you now?”

“Let go of me.” Lauren squirms in his grip and Kevin pushes her backwards. Her back collides with the defunct car. He never did like being close to her.

“You went too far this time, Lauren, and you must have known it.” Kevin idly flips his knife. “You lost your money, your company, even your smile, and instead of being happy with the spot in our community that you were given, you insist on getting in my way. You come for me, alright, I can handle that. But now you _come for my son…”_

Lauren tries for a wobbly smile. It looks grotesque with her tattooed frown. It’s really not a nice smile. “Eehh… I’m very sorry? Look, Kev, I’m sure we can come back from this, ahah.”

“It’s Kevin. And no. I don’t intend to take you back to town with me.” Kevin continues toying with his knife. For a moment he entertains the thought of Lauren slit open, twitching first and still at last, pouring her blood out into the sand, a glorious tribute to a Smiling God, that annoyingly peppy voice forever silenced. It would feel… cathartic.

But there are eyes on Kevin now. There is a child hiding behind the car now who thinks that he is good. Donovan has seen enough blood today already that Kevin wasn’t able to shield him from.

And besides…

“No,” Kevin says. “In death we are the devoured. I don’t think you’re _worthy_ of that.”

Lauren laughs shrilly. “You’re letting me go?”

“I’m leaving you here. Doug and Alicia are nearby, maybe they’ll find you.” They will most likely be less than gentle with her if this does come to pass. They are violent, territorial warriors after all. “I doubt you’ll be getting help from anyone out here. You’re done, Lauren. It’s over.”

Lauren’s mouth twists into something ugly. “Look at you. What a _merciful_ prophet.”

“You think so?” Kevin giggles. “Charles thinks so too, you know. He thinks it is forgiveness and mercy, the reason why I’m leaving you alive. That’s because he’s completely adorable.”

Lauren gasps. “You… you’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you? You just want to see me beaten, you… unpleasant person!”

Oh, yes, Kevin won’t deny it. Nothing is as heady as the rush of power that comes with seeing Lauren humiliated. It’s quite exhilarating, really. Reason would dictate he put the safety of himself and his before that rush of excitement and off Lauren for good. But Kevin has never been stellar at reason. Will he deny himself the repeated pleasure of wearing Lauren down slowly, for a short spike of bloodlust and a bit of catharsis? No, he figures he won’t.

Plus, there is still Donovan’s presence to consider.

“Good luck with your new life out here,” he says. He grabs the roll of tape from the car and ties Lauren up with it. “Consider yourself exiled from Desert Bluffs Too. Maybe I’ll put in a good word for you with Doug and Alicia, but… don’t hold your breath.”

Lauren having been secured, Kevin rounds the car to where Donovan is crouched, a little ball of trepidation. In this opportune moment, Kevin realizes that he is entirely splattered with blood and gore, carrying so many knives, and probably looking like the murderous maniac that Donovan now knows he is.

“Hey, kid,” he tries nonetheless, lowering himself to his knees to get closer to Donnie’s eye-level. “Don’t worry, it’s just me. See, I’m putting all my knives away. Nobody will hurt you now. Let’s get that tape off you and go, okay?” Slowly, carefully, he extends a hand.

Donovan barrels into him, almost knocking him over as he throws his arms around Kevin’s chest and starts sobbing. _“Daddy!”_ he exclaims, still somehow without opening his mouth, how is he doing that? Kevin rubs his back, hoping to soothe the heaving sobs.

“Yeah, kid. Yeah. We’re going home.”


	9. Coda with Reasonable Amounts of Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back at it again with an update!!
> 
> Plot-wise, we are wrapping up! The next chapter will be our epilogue, and then we'll be done here. I'm relieved to be almost done, but I'll also miss doing this fic. Well, I mean, not quite yet, as I still have the epilogue to write, and what an epilogue that will be! It has been a long story arc, and I want to give it a proper send-off.  
> All of you who commented have been a great help and support for me, and I wouldn't have kept on writing this rarepair without you guys giving me a reason to continue. Go you!!

Only as he’s already giving Donovan a piggyback ride back in the direction of the town does Kevin notice that his arm appears to be bleeding. It seems like one of the masked warriors got him after all. It’s Donovan who points this out in fact, tugging at his sleeve and asking about the spreading red stain on the yellow fabric. Kevin can really only shrug and ensure him it’s nothing for him to worry about, but he’s not entirely sure to what extent Donovan is buying that.

Kevin can endure plenty, out there in the desert, but they are a ways from the town. How will he get Donovan home safely? It occurs to him that he hasn’t thought that far beyond retrieval and revenge.

That’s when Donnie suddenly points up at the horizon. “Doggie!”

“Huh?” Kevin asks.

“Daddy look, a doggie!”

And he’s right. Utilizing his Sight, Kevin can see it too. Barreling steadily towards them is Alicia’s car-sized Bichon Frisé.

“Aww, they sent us a ride home.” Kevin grins. “Well spotted, kiddo.”

* * *

Back in Desert Bluffs Too, Charles has passed a fretful day. It seems like an eternity has drifted by since Kevin disappeared, proclaiming he’d get Donovan back. Charles knows that Kevin can handle himself, that Kevin is formidable and terrifying, but of course he’s still afraid.

The hours seem to go by slowly, as if in a gray haze, and all Charles can do is sit in his living room and feel useless. At some point, Grandma Josephine comes over and makes him eat something. At another point, he probably sleeps for a few minutes on the couch.

How could he have let any of this happen?

Donovan is his world, his purpose in life, his… child. It’s as simple as that. Donovan is his child, and he should have watched his child. When it became apparent that things were a bit more politically fraught in Desert Bluffs than it had first appeared, Charles should have taken this as an incentive to keep a closer eye on. Donovan should never have been caught up in the throes of that. Donovan should have had a normal childhood, unaffected by the troubles that concerned the grownups, unbothered and oblivious and innocent of it. Charles should have been able to shield him, should have thought to shield him. Why had he assumed that these tensions, these underhanded power struggles would never touch them? Why had he assumed that everything would be alright if they just kept hiding behind Kevin forever?

Now Kevin is out there, doing god-knows-what, ultimately executing his duty as a father. Charles can’t believe, in retrospect, he ever was worried that Kevin wouldn’t be up to the role. He’s only been in the family for a couple of months, he hasn’t even legally adopted Donnie yet or anything, he’s not a blood relation, and yet he’s out there, probably carving a bloody swath through whatever lurks out in the desert to get Donovan back home. And what is Charles doing? He’s sitting uselessly, pitying himself. What kind of failure of a father is he…?

Someone rings the doorbell, tearing him from his thoughts of failure. Thinking it’s probably Josephine back again, or someone else wanting to express their sympathy and support, Charles drags himself up from the couch and goes to open.

Kevin is standing outside, a wide, fetching grin on his face and Donovan in his arms.

“Hi,” Kevin says. “I heard you were missing something.”

All the air goes out of Charles at once. The tension, the fear, the self-loathing and recriminations and panic, it all sags away and he almost swoons right there in the door. There is nothing but relief.

He takes Donovan from Kevin and hugs him so tightly, kissing his little forehead over and over. “You’re alright… god, you’re here, you’re alright.”

Donovan beams at him. “There was a big dog!” he says. “The mean lady had me in a car but daddy came and got me.”

“Good… that’s good.” Charles pecks another kiss into Donovan’s hair for good measure.

Donovan squirms a little in the hug, a sticky little hand flailing up to pat Charles’ face. “Dad, stop. That tickles.”

Charles takes a second to look at Donovan properly. “Good lord, you’re covered in blood! _Both_ of you are covered in blood!”

“It’s fine,” Kevin interjects, somewhat hurriedly. “None of it is Donnie’s.”

It takes a second for Charles to digest this, but he rallies. “Alright then, we’ll be drawing you a bath, little man.” He carries Donovan inside the house, still floating on a cloud of relief that he’s alright. “Hey, maybe you should clean up too, Kev—”

Kevin has vanished.

* * *

Kevin is going home, which honestly is for the best.

So he delivered Donovan to Charles. One bullet point to tick off the agenda. He hadn’t considered until the very second it was physically happening that Charles would see him caked in blood and armed with a dozen gently used knives. Charles has always maintained a distance to that side of Kevin, and everyone has been so much happier for it. Now Kevin exposed Charles’s son to this… There’s no way that will go over well.

By the time he unlocks his front door, even with his custom-made, Strex-manufactured endurance level, Kevin feels a little dizzy. He peels out of his jacket (easier said than done, slick as it is with sweat and blood) and drops it on the floor as he heads into his bathroom. He will have to do something about the cut on his arm, then he’ll have to shower. Then maybe he can catch some sleep, and after that, he supposes he’ll see what he can salvage. This seems to be the constant refrain of Kevin’s life: _let’s see what we can salvage._

_Ring the bells that still can ring…_

The bathroom mirror, as that sometimes happens, doesn’t show his own reflection. Instead, there is that other Kevin, the one who’s always somber and lamenting the life that Strex took from him, the one that wishes to return to the past, who has no faith in a Smiling God anymore. What a Debbie downer.

“Shoo,” Kevin tells him. “I may have to stitch myself in a moment. Go cry somewhere else.”

With an ethereal sigh, the other Kevin departs.

Charles got here too late. Charles should have ended up with that guy in the mirror, Kevin thinks dourly. That guy is all soft and soulful and not embroiled in a bunch of political nonsense that gets little children kidnapped. It’s his fault, isn’t it? If Lauren hadn’t figured that Donovan was important to Kevin, she would have left Donovan alone. So in consequence…

Kevin doesn’t like consequences. Kevin doesn’t like not having everything he wants to have. But Charles and Donovan have wormed their way into his heart, and he also cannot abide by them getting hurt because of him. He watched all his loved ones be assimilated into the Strex corporate structure once before and, in this he can agree with the other Kevin, or all the other Kevins (Kevises?) that there seem to be inside his head and out, he does not want to see this happen again.

The arm doesn’t look like it needs stitches, in Kevin’s medical opinion. Still, he should clean it up. Maybe put a bandage on it? Oh boy, the dizziness is getting worse. What are all those little steps there are to taking care of a wound?

Right, um, disinfect first. He doesn’t have anything for that. Wait, he has vodka in the kitchen, doesn’t he? That’ll do. But he can probably afford to take a minute… just a minute to stand still, bracing himself against the sink, until the world seems a bit more solid.

Kevin had no idea that someone at all else entered his house until Charles appears in the bathroom door.

“Hey, hon,” he says. “Donnie said he wanted to spend the night here, so here we are. Jesus Christ, you’re bleeding!”

“I was taking care of it,” Kevin says. He turns towards Charles and the room starts spinning softly. “You can’t be… we have to talk.”

“Anything you want, okay, but let’s get this sorted out first.” Charles grips him by the other arm, his face, Kevin thinks, unduly worried, and sits him down on the rim of the bathtub.

“Stay right here,” Charles says, “don’t move. I have a first-aid-kit in my car.”

Kevin sits and smiles into the middle distance. Aww. Charles is so well-prepared.

Charles comes back, cleans up the gash in Kevin’s arm – it barely stings – and wraps it up. His fingers are gentle, and Kevin can’t bear the gentleness. He wants to bite Charles’s hand, he wants to hiss and scurry away to the farthest corner so that Charles will stop being gentle with him, so that he will look at Kevin and finally admit that here is a monster, and that there is no playing happy families with a monster, and that they cannot go on like they have.

“All done,” Charles says, fastening the bandage. “You look dead on your feet, babe, let me take you to bed.”

In another context, it would be a charming proposition, and Kevin would attempt to angle for sex, at the very least a blowjob. But he does feel dead on his feet, so he lets Charles wrap an arm around him and lead him to the bedroom. He passes out at some point, he thinks, because later he will not remember how and when he got to bed.

* * *

Sometimes, Charles thinks, he still doesn’t quite understand Kevin. Why would he just hand him Donovan and disappear like that? Why did he not say that he was hurt? Now Kevin’s out cold spread-eagled on his bed, still with most of his clothes on and his skin covered in a thin layer of amalgamated sweat, blood, sand and grime. They’ll have to change the sheets later, Charles thinks idly. But right now, even if Kevin’s behavior puzzles him a bit, he’s just glad to have his family whole and in one place again. Donovan has had his bath and dozed off in Charles’s arms, the stress of the day having been too much for him. Except for that few minutes of tending to Kevin’s injury in the bathroom, Charles has not felt physically able to let his son out of his sight. All night, he’s just been wanting to watch Donovan and Kevin both, beyond relieved that they’re both home and having to check every five minutes that they’re both still well, so he carried Donnie from his room to the master bedroom and put him (no protests from Donnie there) in Kevin’s bed. Donovan had simply snuggled up to Kevin like a kitten to its mother with a delighted little sound and fallen back asleep. Now Charles has all his family here to stare at.

In the morning, Donovan doesn’t go to daycare, and Charles doesn’t go to work. Kevin wants to head to the radio station first thing, as usual, but Charles requests for him to stay.

Kevin is coming out of the shower, toweling his hair off, when Charles makes that request.

“Why?” Kevin asks. “What do you want me to stay for?”

“Well, we all went through a lot yesterday and we’re tired,” Charles says. “And it’ll be good for Donnie to know that you’re here. And I just… call me paranoid but for my peace of mind, I want my family to stay together for today.”

Kevin lowers his gaze and bites his lips. “Charles… are you sure?”

This is when Charles catches on to the fact that something’s still worrying Kevin. “What’s there to not be sure about?”

“Well, gosh.” Kevin sighs. “I… got Donnie all covered in blood yesterday. I’m sorry about that. I know blood’s… not your thing, and probably not Donnie’s thing.”

Charles blinks at him, not quite understanding. “Kevin, you brought my son home.”

“He saw some bad things because of me.”

“I’m sure whatever you did out there, it was what was necessary. If anyone is to blame for yesterday, it’s probably mostly Lauren.”

“But I could have dealt with Lauren earlier.” Kevin fidgets a bit. “I could have… I don’t know. Not been like that. I want to keep you both – selfish, I know. But maybe it’s not… safe for you here, what with the politics and me being… well. Being this.”

Charles takes a long, slow breath. Well, here’s… something. “Kevin, what are you… do you expect me to _complain_ about you rescuing my son in a way I might not like?”

Kevin shakes his head. “What I’m saying is…”

“What you’re saying is that Desert Bluffs is a quarreling, dangerous, frequently violent, blood-soaked place—”

Kevin’s sockets widen. “Desert Bluffs is a wonderful place!” he says, displaying an astonishing amount of cognitive dissonance. “But maybe it’s not… the right kind of wonderful for you two.”

It stings, a bit, because it sounds like being sent away, but Charles knows better than to act on that sting. Kevin is trying to do something good for him here, he’s trying to overcome his most selfish tendencies, and that should be appreciated. Charles knows that in the past, Kevin would have flat-out denied that there was anything wrong with Desert Bluffs at all, that anyone had ever been in any danger yesterday, that it could possibly be unsafe for a five-year-old boy to live here.

“I’m glad you’re trying to look out for us, Kevin,” Charles says, after some mental deliberation and trying to find the exact right words. “I trust that you can do it in the future, too. That’s why I want to stay here, and Donnie wants to stay here.”

Kevin blinks. “Donnie… wants to stay here? Even after yesterday?”

“He’s happy here. He asked me to come here, to your place, all yesterday afternoon, and you know why? He loves you. You’re his dad. I’m sure he can’t even imagine you not being in his life now. He has friends here who aren’t ghosts. Not to mention he has a calling here.” Charles smiles. “So yeah, Desert Bluffs is… different. But we’re used to different, Donnie and I. We can navigate this type of different, especially with you helping us. At least this town has people we can touch.”

For a second, Kevin just sits there on his bed processing that, quietly, smiling, glowing. Then he shoves that all down, and replaces it with his usual ease.

He waggles his eyebrows. “That’s what you moved here for, hm? Not our amazing, positive attitudes, or our rich spiritual life. People you can _touch_.”

Charles chuckles. “Touch you right now.” He puts his hand on Kevin’s hip, tickles the soft skin there. Kevin makes a squeak and then muffles it quickly, remembering that Donovan, now back in his own room, is still sleeping.

They probably have time before Donovan wakes up, more than enough time. Kevin laughs and allows himself to be pounced upon. They roll over, and he looks beautiful underneath Charles, the threat of him tempered by the sweetness and the joy of him.

“I love you so much,” Charles whispers.


End file.
